


The Thief of Spades: Season One

by alifeasvivid



Series: The Thief of Spades [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Detective/Thief AU, Episodic Fic, M/M, Slow Burn, UKUS, UST, UST up to your eyeballs, the slowest burn that ever smoldered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 35,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: Alfred F. Jones is a notoriously elusive, brazenly cheeky, high-end jewel and art thief known to most only as the Thief of Spades. Many have tried to catch him, but only straight-laced Inspector Arthur Kirkland of New Scotland Yard has ever had any success, mainly because he is a thief himself... that is, he stole Alfred's heart.





	1. Bring Me Up, Bring Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> *hums the tune of Mr. Saxobeat*

Twenty-two year old Alfred F. Jones grins confidently, wildly, as he uncrosses and re-crosses his legs, which causes the florescent light to glance off of his black, patent leather, lace-up, knee-high boots—complete with four inch stiletto heels. His posture is relaxed, nonchalant, and heedless of the handcuff glinting on his right wrist.

“Is this the kid?” a white-haired inspector asks with a disbelieving smirk as he approaches the desk beside which Alfred is sat.

As Alfred opens his mouth the reply, the man attached to the other ring of the handcuff by his left wrist snaps, “Don’t speak.” The man, twenty-seven year old Inspector Arthur Kirkland of New Scotland Yard, furrows his brow up at his colleague. “He is not a child, Gil, but yes, this is… oh, what do you call yourself again? The Bandit of Shovels?”

Alfred meets Inspector Kirkland’s eyes with the intention of glaring playfully at him because he definitely knows the real nickname, but the gaze lasts long enough for Alfred to be momentarily transfixed by those eyes and their stunning shade of green. When he snaps out of it, however, and opens his mouth once more to say that, actually, he is known as the Thief of Spades, he is silenced again by Arthur’s sharp command, “Don’t speak.”

“Why isn’t he in lock-up?” Gilbert asks.

“Because, Beilschmidt,” Arthur says tiredly, “that is where he escaped from the last time. I’ve—we’ve finally got him and I’m not letting him out of my sight until the MI6 agents get here.”

“So what’s with the boots, then?”

Rather than answer Gilbert, Arthur glowers directly at Alfred. “Don’t ask,” he growls.

Alfred uncrosses and re-crosses his legs again, emphasizing not only the boots, but his shimmering, skin-tight, navy spandex pants as well. He grins up at Gilbert briefly and then swivels his head in Arthur’s direction. “I have to take a leak.”

Arthur smirks and sets an empty paper coffee cup on the corner of the desk. “Have at.”

Gilbert snickers, causing Arthur to glare at him, in turn causing him to whistle tunelessly and walk away, shaking his head.

Alfred shifts his legs again, leaving them spread invitingly this time. “Not letting me out of your sight, Inspector Kirkland? I didn’t know you were so hot for me. You’re pretty sexy yourself, can I see your gun?”

Arthur only raises an eyebrow before returning to his paperwork. “I am not armed.”

“That’s a damn shame. You know, I wouldn’t be opposed to another cavity search if you—” 

“Don’t. Speak.”


	2. ...and Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't take your eyes off of him for one second or he's gone. That's the rule.

Inspector Arthur Kirkland intends to sigh with relief as he leans back in his chair and scrubs his hand over his face, but the air escapes and leaves only lead behind in his chest. He should have accompanied the MI6 agents all the way to the embassy and he knows it, but Alfred had been driving him absolutely mad.

Breathing in deeply, he sits forward and flips through the case files on his desk. The one he’d had for Alfred has been confiscated along with the notorious thief himself. Arthur shuffles the case files around, attempting to prioritize them without really looking at them and so the endeavor is mainly unsuccessful.

Something is quietly nibbling at the back of his mind and he can’t seem to let it go.

“So they took the kid, huh?” Gilbert asks casually.

“Yes. Thank god,” Arthur mutters.

Gilbert smirks. “Maybe we should have kept him around, like a pet. He is rather infatuated with you.”

Arthur groans. “If you believe that, then you’re every bit the utter pillock you look.” He pushes his chair back from his desk, rises and glares at his collegue. “I’m going to get a coffee.”

“Two sugars, no cream,” Gilbert requests, still grinning.

Arthur walks away, grousing, “I didn’t offer.” He makes his way down the hallway to where the antiquated cappacino machine grumbles to itself until someone tries to use it, at which point it stops grumbling and whines pitifully. He almost gets there when he sees the MI6 agents whispering frantically and making aggressive hand gestures at each other. “Oi. What’s going on?”

The four of them turn to look at him.

“Weren’t there five of you bef–  _bloody hell_! You let him get away!?” Arthur accuses, furious.

“We don’t know if he’s left the building,” one of them says.

“We’ve lost contact with our colleague,” another chimes in. “It’s likely they’re still on the premises.”

“Oh yes, very likely,” Arthur huffs, “It’s about as likely as the sky is to open up and rain down rubber chickens. If you take your eyes off of him for one second, he’s gone. That’s the first rule. Fuck. An elite squad of idiots, you lot.” Arthur turns on heel and storms back toward his desk ready to initiate a shut-down of the building and call for all ports of entry to be advised. The agents trail after him at slight a distance, fearing his wrath.

Upon reaching, they find their missing colleague: bound, gagged and dressed in the clothes Alfred had been wearing, right down to the four-inch stiletto boots.

Arthur barely restrains himself from screaming in frustration. He yanks the strip of cloth out of the agent’s mouth. “What did he say?”

The man flexes his jaw and takes a deep breath. “He apologized. He told me to make sure you got his note,” he says with a nod toward the television monitor which normally runs the news broadcasts. 

The screen is now white with a blue sans serif font plastered across it.

 _Inspector Kirkland,_  
_Good game._  
 _Maybe next time you’ll be armed._  
 _Still wanna see your gun._  
 _X O X O_  
♠︎

Gilbert sidles over and leans his forearm on Arthur’s shoulder even as Arthur looks like he might actually explode at any moment. “See. I told you he’s got a thing for you.”


	3. The Green Faerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is lonely when you can't gaze into the eyes of your love.

Emeralds are soft. The Thief of Spades has worked with them before and they are sort of a pain in the ass. They’re high enough on the Mohs scale, but since they often have a lot of imperfections, they break pretty easily and they don’t like heat.

It’s normally not a problem. Alfred F. Jones shoves his hands into his pockets as he admires the vibrant green stone on the pedestal in front of him. The heat thing is normally not a problem unless a thief’s best bet is to free the stone from its twenty thousand dollar display case using a laser. 

Alfred looks around briefly to make sure no one has deemed him suspicious. 

This particular gemology exhibit featuring colored stones at the Science Museum in Kensington makes him feel like a kid in the most beautiful candy store and he has his heart set on the best piece of all:

The Green Faerie.

The Faerie is the largest cut emerald in the world, being almost as large as Alfred’s palm, and is nearly flawless. It is more valuable than almost any diamond. The gem has existed in its current form for one hundred and fifty years, having had its achingly beautiful nature revealed by a gem cutter who had, according to legend, chipped the raw piece from the throne of a faerie queen. After his work was completed, he was driven mad by the emerald’s stunning color and perfection and thus, drank himself to death with absinthe.

Alfred grins wryly. He can relate.

He wanders around a little, taking in the other pieces, but continuously casts glances back at the Green Faerie. No one has hired him to steal it and he surely won’t be fencing it. He just wants to steal it. He  _needs_  to have it.

How else, he reasons, can he capture the gaze of a certain Inspector with eyes more green and perfect than the gem? 

* * *

 

“Alright, I’m here. What is it? Kensington is normally a little outside of my purview.” Inspector Kirkland crosses carefully, but grumpily, into the crime scene located inside the Science Museum. He is immediately handed a pair of latex gloves and cloth covers for his boots.

He surveys those already present as he pulls on the gloves, recognizing two MI6 agents by their gormless stares and the fact that he has worked with them before… not long ago, in fact. 

The other person, a woman who is sharply dressed in tailored grey pants, a fitted black waistcoat, and cream colored blouse with her sleeves folded up, moves toward him. “Inspector Kirkland. Thank you for coming.” Her light brown hair is tied hastily in a loose bun and her hazel eyes are focused. “I am Agent Elizaveta Hedevary. I’m with the United States Embassy.”

Arthur regards her evenly for a moment. Her accent is only mostly yankee, but he has heard of her before. “A pleasure, Miss Hedevary.” He shakes her hand. “Since you’re here, I assume this has something to do with the Thief of Spades.”

Elizaveta raises her eyebrow. “Yes. How did you–?”

“We apparently run in similar circles, as it were.” Arthur quips.

“Right. Well, then I’ll fill you in,” she says, leading him toward the center of the scene. “The Museum has been housing a large colored gem exhibit, including the world’s largest cut emerald, known colloquially as the Green Faerie.”

“And he stole it?”

“Yes, as you see.” Elizaveta gestures to the meter-tall display case, the glass top having been smashed open.

“Bloody hell, how did he–?” 

“We’re not certain. The glass was supposed to have retained heat, thus deterring any laser entry as the heat would have damaged the stone, so he appears to have just shattered it.”

“And no one saw? No one  _heard_?”

“Not a sound, not a shadow. The alarm system appears to have been temporarily tampered with. Very typical of him.”

“Yes. It is. So then, Miss Hedevary, since this is fairly standard for him, why am I here?”

“He left a note. It’s addressed to you.”

There is indeed a small folded piece of paper with “Inspector Kirkland” printed on the outside.

“May I retrieve it?”

Elizaveta nods. 

 _Please forgive me, Inspector._  
_I had to. It’s the closest thing to the color of your eyes._  
_I’ll trade you._  
♠︎


	4. Meet Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years ago, as a Detective Constable, Arthur Kirkland earned the respect and admiration of the Thief of Spades. It will be a curse on him for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cleaned up/expanded slightly from the tumblr version.

Two years ago…

“Heard you’ve been asking about me,” a voice purrs in an American accent from behind Arthur.  


Arthur Kirkland whirls around to see a young man, almost a boy really, perched on the courtyard wall in the evening shadow of the grand estate New Scotland Yard has had under surveillance for the past week. The boy wears entirely black clothing and has on sleek, reflective goggles so his eyes are hidden, but his blond hair is perfectly visible as are the fine cut of his cheekbones and the plush pink of his lips which are twisted in a cheeky grin. He holds one knee tucked up under his chin while his other leg swings casually down over the ledge, as if trying to look cute.

“I suppose that would depend on who, precisely, you are.” Arthur’s hands are shoved in the pockets of his navy blue peacoat and his thumb lingers over “Talk” button of the communication device in his left pocket, which is connected to a nearly invisible ear piece. If pressed, the rest of the team will hear him speak and alert them to the boy’s presence. 

“Who do you think I am?”

“I have reason to suspect that you are the Thief of Spades.”  


The grin widens. “What gave me away, Constable Kirkland?”

Arthur freezes, momentarily caught off guard by this even though he’d prepared for it. He is well aware of the Thief of Spades’ history, but only through reports. He has never been involved in an active investigation and this is the first time he has ever seen the infamous jewel thief in person.

“Detective Constable Arthur Kirkland, age twenty-five, never married, ranked third in your class at the Detective Academy and I’ve even heard that you’re on track to be a Sergeant soon. You are the youngest of four brothers, your last boyfriend dumped you, and now you live with your–ah– _mum_ , Abigail. Is that right?” The black-clad man hops down from the wall.  


Arthur coughs discreetly to feign surprise, pressing the button on the device in his pocket. “Yes. That is correct. Though I can’t think why you’d be bothered to learn all that,” he replies evenly.

“Really? Hm. You should be flattered. I haven’t let anyone in your profession get this close to me in awhile.” The Thief of Spades approaches Arthur, his footsteps making no sound against the stone floor of the courtyard.  


“Let me? Is that so? Perhaps you have simply walked into my trap.” Arthur smirks as he sees his team move into position behind the young man.  


“Can’t see how,” the thief says, standing just out of arms’ reach.  


“Of course not. I’ve heard you’ve been asking about me, as well. Perhaps you thought I wouldn’t notice, but I’m not a fool. I’ve clearly caught your interest in some way.” Arthur now steps closer to the thief, holding his attention. “I cannot fathom the reason why, nor do I care, but you have, in fact, let your guard down.”  


At that moment, two other constables seize the thief and bind his wrists behind his back, forcing him down to his knees.

Arthur strides over and tugs the goggles from his face, only to almost imperceptibly gasp at the most striking blue he’s ever seen in his life. He reaches down and pulls a sixty-two carat diamond wreath necklace from the pouch at the thief’s hip. It’s dazzling even in the fading light of the courtyard. “I’ll take a wild guess and say that this does not belong to you.”

“I’ve heard possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?” The young man giggles, eyes glinting with the same flash as the diamonds. 

Arthur hands the necklace off to one of the officers holding the thief down and takes his place. They pull the man to his feet and lead him to the car. 

“Out of pure curiosity,” Arthur begins, immediately knowing he won’t like the answer, “why that piece? It’s valuable on its own of course, but you could never fence it like that and the quality of the diamonds is such that they wouldn’t be worth very much individually.”

The thief actually seems impressed by this if the way he raises his eyebrow is any indication. “You know your stuff, Constable. Well, if you want the truth, I just thought it would look so pretty on me.” 

“I somehow knew you’d say something stupid like that.”

He giggles again as Arthur shoves him into the back seat of the car. “Well shit,” he says sarcastically. “Constable Kirkland has caught me, fair and square. What’ll happen to me now? I’m sure in a lot of trouble,” he teases in a sing-song lilt.

Arthur scowls down at him. “Don’t take your eyes off of him for one second,” he commands gruffly to his colleague in the front passenger’s seat, who then exchanges glances with the driver. “I mean it!” Arthur snaps.

The thief outright laughs, promising obedience that sounds like a threat, “Oh, don’t worry, Constable. I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”


	5. A Thing of Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred is not very good at denying himself the beautiful things he wants...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred's perspective on their first meeting.

Two years ago...

Twenty year old Alfred F. Jones traverses the walls of the courtyard in which the detective is keeping watch. He pats the pouch at his hip, making sure the replica of the diamond wreath necklace he stole from the manor yesterday is still in place. He knows he shouldn’t be here at all. He already got what he came for and the smart thing to do would be to leave, fence the real necklace and move on.

And yet.

Arthur Kirkland of New Scotland Yard is pacing the enclosed garden, his sleek, black boots scuffing the stone bricks. He’s all clean lines and crisp authority with his navy blue peacoat, with eyes more green and striking than any jewel.

Alfred has a self-confessed obsession with beauty and Arthur Kirkland’s stern brow, fine features, and steady hands are handsome enough on their own, but what makes him truly spectacular to Alfred is the sharp glint in his eyes, the way he observes and analyzes everything… the fact that he has come closer to catching Alfred than anyone has in a long while. Arthur Kirkland is whip-smart and, though he seems bafflingly unaware of it, dazzlingly gorgeous…

…and Alfred is not in the habit of denying himself the beautiful things he wants.

He seats himself on the courtyard wall, trying to look demure, though the effect is likely lost behind his goggles which have no purpose other than to obscure his eyes. “Heard you’ve been asking about me.”

Arthur turns on heel to face Alfred, assessing him quickly. Alfred can’t help but gasp at the intense gleam in the detective’s eyes and he can’t help but anxiously wonder how highly Arthur has appraised him. “I suppose that would depend,” Arthur says in that smooth accent of his, “on who, precisely, you are.”

Alfred has been keeping tabs well enough on the investigation, but he has yet to discern if they know his real name. “Who do you think I am?”

“I have reason to suspect that you are the Thief of Spades.”

Alfred’s grin curls around his lips at hearing Arthur say his  _professional_  name. “What gave me away, Constable Kirkland?” he asks, returning the favor.

The way Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise is gratifying to say the least. It is, after all, the first time they have met and Alfred wants to make a distinctive impression.

Pleased with himself, Alfred rattles off what he knows, “Detective Constable Arthur Kirkland, age twenty-five, never married,”  _splendid_ , “ranked third in your class at the Detective Academy and I’ve even heard that you’re on track to be Sergeant soon,”  _so wonderfully intelligent and ambitious_ , “You are the youngest of four brothers, your last boyfriend dumped you,”  _fool that he obviously must have been_ , “and now you live with your—ah— _mum_ , Abigail,”  _such a lovely lady and a divine cook_ , “Is that right?” Alfred jumps down from the wall.

Arthur coughs in a rather feeble attempt to hide his shock. “Yes. That is correct. Though I can’t think why you’d be bothered to learn all that,” he replies.

Alfred approaches him, knowing it’s a bad idea, but even when he was a kid he had trouble keeping his hands out of the cookie jar. “Really? Hm. You should be flattered. I haven’t let anyone in your profession get this close to me in awhile.” Of course, Scotland Yard’s investigation has gotten a little too close for Alfred’s comfort.

“Let me? Is that so? Perhaps you have simply walked into my trap.” The cocky smirk Arthur levels at him should require a license.

“Can’t see how,” Alfred says, maintaining his cool.

“Of course not. I’ve heard you’ve been asking about me, as well. Perhaps you thought I wouldn’t notice, but I’m not a fool. I’ve clearly caught your interest in some way.” Arthur moves toward him and Alfred is transfixed.

A sliver of panic creeps up Alfred’s spine. How? How could he have found out? He had been so discreet while researching Arthur.

“I cannot fathom the reason why, nor do I care, but you have, in fact, let your guard down.”

Alfred feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up for only seconds before two other police officers grab him. He’s been caught. Arthur Kirkland has not only come the closest to catching the Thief of Spades, he has actually caught him. Impressive.

Arthur strides over and yanks the goggles from Alfred’s face. He is seemingly caught off guard for some reason when he sees Alfred’s eyes. His mouth sets in a grim line and he reaches into the pouch at Alfred’s hip. “I’ll take a wild guess and say that this does not belong to you.”

“I’ve heard possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?” It won’t be apparent that it’s a replica until it can be examined properly.

Arthur hands the necklace off and takes that officer’s place. “Out of pure curiosity,” he begins as he and the remaining officer lead Alfred out to whatever vehicle they have waiting, “why that piece? It’s valuable on its own of course, but you could never fence it like that and the quality of the diamonds is such that they wouldn’t be worth very much individually.”

Alfred raises his eyebrow. A detective with such specific knowledge of gems at Arthur’s pay grade is rare. “You know your stuff, Constable. Well, if you want the truth, I just thought it would look so pretty on me,” he says with a giggle.

“I somehow knew you’d say something stupid like that.”

Alfred laughs even as Arthur manhandles him into the back seat of the car. “Well… shit!” he says cheekily. “Constable Kirkland has caught me, fair and square. What’ll happen to me now? I’m sure in a lot of trouble!”

Arthur frowns at him and then turns to his colleague in the passenger’s seat. “Don’t take your eyes off of him for one second. I mean it!”

Alfred laughs, utterly enamored of the stodgy detective now. “Oh, don’t worry, Constable. I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

He will, however, have to find a way to get out of these handcuffs.


	6. Emerald Like Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny interlude in which Alfred contemplates what to do about the... emerald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda just slipping this in for context about Alfred.

Alfred keeps telling himself he’ll give the emerald back.

He wants to give it back, really. He certainly can’t fence it and it really is a true piece of art. It had a perfect home in that exhibit, among pretty colored gem friends, able to be admired by so many people. What more could such a jewel want? It belongs there.

As he reclines on the beat up sofa in the apartment he has turned into his hideout, he takes the Green Faerie out of the case he is storing it in and strokes it delicately with gloved hands. He knows he must give it back, but seeing its shocking color brings warm feelings and thoughts of Inspector Kirkland.

Alfred wishes he could have seen the Inspector’s face when he read Alfred’s note, but Agent Hedevary had been there and she knows well enough to jam any of Alfred’s signals while the crime scene is active. Of course, he had known she’d show up eventually. There was no way he could have broken into a British museum housing an American-owned exhibit without incurring the ire of the CIA. He frowns, holding the emerald tightly. If Hedevary is here now, then Alfred will have a difficult time both working  _and_  getting to know Inspector Kirkland.

She’ll likely want to make the detective a part of her little “elite team” and fill his head with lies the Thief of Spades, Alfred thinks bitterly. She’ll poison Arthur against him and take him away.

Alfred won’t let her do that.

He sighs and places the Green Faerie back into its case. It is a work of art, after all and its creator is passed; Alfred doubts that the man, absinthe-soaked though his death may have been, would have wanted the jewel’s beauty hidden away. It wouldn’t be right. 

Alfred places it carefully back in the safe he designed himself. The color really is quite maddening though, isn’t it? Perhaps the public is safer with the gem in Alfred’s care. 

No. Something that beautiful needs to be admired.

Alfred vows to take it back tomorrow.

Maybe.


	7. English Tea with a Proper Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets a new assignment and.... so does Alfred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one follows after "The Green Faerie" chapter. "Meet Cute" and "A Thing of Beauty" are flashbacks.

“Kirkland.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector?”

“My office. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Arthur jumps up from his desk and strides toward Chief Inspector James Carter’s office. He makes sure to deliberately step over Detective Sergeant Gilbert Beilschmidt’s foot when he tries to trip Arthur with it.

“What a good hound to come so quickly when his master calls,” Gilbert teases in his slight German accent.

“Yes, my ability to follow orders is surely the reason you didn’t get your promotion,” Arthur fires back, kicking Gilbert’s foot.

Gilbert sticks his tongue out at Arthur and Arthur barely resists returning the gesture, choosing instead to smack his colleague upside the head and walk into Carter’s office.

“Be serious, Inspector,” Carter chastises, having seen the exchange. “And close the door.”

Arthur nods as he gently shuts the door. “Yes, sir. Am I in some sort of trouble, sir? If this is in regards to the over time I submitted, I honestly wasn’t sure how to handle payroll in the instance of being called in by the CIA.”

“No. It’s not about the overtime. And, no, you’re not in trouble, but I hope you enjoyed working with the CIA,” the Chief Inspector says, scratching his signature over a form on his desk.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Er… I suppose…, that is— not especially.”

Carter hums. “That’s a shame then, because you’re going to be spending a lot more time with them. Specifically Agent Hedevary. She has requested that you be made part of her special task force in order to assist in the capture of Alfred Jones, also known as the Thief of Spades, as you are aware by now.”

Arthur falters. “It is flattering for her to think so highly of me, but I’m certain you have already turned her down?” he asks, a slightly tone of tentative hope in his voice.

Chief Inspector James Carter, with his silver hair, broad shoulders, and cinderblock face, looks up at one of the youngest, brightest, most diligent inspectors he’s ever had the privilege of working with and responds gruffly, “Kirkland, let me put it another way. Agent Hedevary has not requested you, she has requisitioned you. Whether you or I like it or not, you will be working with the CIA until they can apprehend Jones. I fully expect that you will show those yanks as well as the buffoons at MI6 what real investigative technique looks like and that you will be a shining example of a true British detective. Am I understood, Inspector?”

Carter’s words are encouraging, his tone is far more dangerous. The message is clear: Arthur will work with the CIA, be on his best behavior for Agent Hedevary, and not do one bloody thing to disgrace the Metropolitan Police or else.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Spend the rest of today getting Beilschmidt up to date on your cases and report tomorrow at the American Embassy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur sighs heavily as soon as he is on the other side of the Chief Inspector’s door. Ordinarily, it would be a tremendous honor to be singled out by an Intelligence organization, but Arthur had turned down direct offers from MI5 a few years ago. He supposes that working with the CIA will be interesting, at the very least, but something about Alfred Jones puts him ill at ease and if Arthur were better at deciphering his own feelings, he might have been able to say what.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Abigail Kirkland is a beautiful, stout, plump lady in her mid-fifties with streaks of gray running through her dark auburn hair and a familiar sparkle of mischief twinkling in her bright green eyes. She has a soft, sweet smile which conceals the tenacity and temper of a badger in her stance. The lines on her face have been etched by her four sons, whom she is more than happy to brag about at any available opportunity. So much the better if she can invite even mildly-interested persons over for tea and parade photographs before them.

She glows with radiant dignity to speak of her oldest, her steady Alistair. He lives in Glasgow with his wife, a gorgeous French woman named Marianne, and their three children, all of whom are Abigail’s precious angels. He practices business law and has a renowned reputation as a tough, successful negotiator.

Her exasperated sighs turn into laughter when she recounts stories of her darling Ian, a free spirit with such a talent for music. It’s no wonder that he and his (very pregnant) wife, an Irish girl named Holly, are part of a popular group in Dublin, though of course Ian’s got sense enough to keep a good job as a private music teacher.

She’s quiet and wistful over her sweet Dylan, her second youngest. A kind, good-natured boy with a mind for words and studying from the start, where else would he find himself but the Church? He’s a parish priest in a small village near Cardiff, so she doesn’t see him much, but he’s a good boy and he calls her every week.

And then, there is her youngest, her baby: her stubborn Arthur. Her former delinquent turned genius detective, he was the first in his class from the Detective Academy to earn the rank of Inspector, you know and she’s never more worried for him than she is proud of him.

“I mean, of course, it’s not like in America, you know,” she explains as she pours another cup of strong black tea. “No offense, dear.”

Alfred Jones takes a sip from the fine porcelain cup. “None taken, Mrs. Kirkland. I don’t think I could ever get mad at you as long as you keep these scones coming,” he says with a flirtatious wink. He sets the cup down and looks at the picture frame in his hand. Alfred has his own pictures of Arthur, several covert shots and his official photo from work, but this one is of him and Abigail, both smiling. It stirs a delicious ache in Alfred’s heart.

She giggles. “Obviously, you need them, love. You’re skin and bone, even worse than my Arthur. But as I was saying, I don’t think I’d ever sleep a wink if I knew he was carrying a gun everywhere. I don’t really worry about his work. I know he’ll be successful at it and I know he enjoys it very much, but perhaps too much. He’s been living upstairs for over two years now. Not that I mind. He’s so fastidious, it’s not as if I have to pick up after him—oh that’s a fine quality of his, yes. He’s very tidy.”

Alfred grins internally. Abigail has been pointing out Arthur’s “fine qualities” all afternoon. So far, Alfred has learned that he is handsome, caring, considerate, affectionate (in his own way), good-humored, and tidy. Except, apparently, it is nearly impossible to keep secrets from him.

“He had to move back in?” Alfred prompts, although he already knows the reason why.

Abigail’s brow finally furrows slightly. “His… partner at the time threw him out. I always thought that man was no good, but I’ve tried to stay out of his love life. I think sometimes he feels as though I’m judging him. I wouldn’t. I can’t even say I was much surprised when he told me he fancies men, but he has terrible taste in boyfriends, that’s one he got from me, you know. Anyway, Arthur was working on a very important case when it happened and he didn’t have much time to look for a new place to live, so he moved in here. It was meant to be temporary, but…”

“There’s always another important case?” Alfred finishes. In a strange way, he feels jealous of Arthur to have such a big, loving family. He thinks of Arthur being picked on by his brothers or of Arthur spending time with his nieces and nephew and the idea of it all is so cute it makes Alfred’s chest hurt. Of course, it’s also absolutely delightful to see the ways in which Arthur investigating Alfred has changed the detective’s life. He should thank Alfred, really. If he hadn’t been working on that investigation and hadn’t moved back in with his mother, he might have gotten into another bad relationship!

Abigail looks over at Alfred and her smile returns just enough to erase the frown. “I suppose you could say that.” A pause. The smile grows and takes on a very Cheshire quality. “Freddie, you… would you? I don’t like to assume, but you like men too, right? Perhaps, would you want to go out with Arthur?”

Alfred’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to speak, but Abigail cuts him off.

“He’s a proper gentleman and I’m not asking you to marry him, but maybe just a night out so that he can take his mind off of work.”

A massive bubble of perfectly giddy joy swells up in Alfred’s entire being. “I would love to, Mrs. Kirkland.”

She beams. “Call me Abigail.”


	8. For the Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Backstory Chapter: Arthur Edition!/Arthur gets a gun from good ol' Uncle Chekhov

Arthur Kirkland stands at the base of the steps leading up the door of the US Embassy, looks down at his feet to watch the raindrops slide off of his boots. He sighs and heads up the steps. He wonders if being accosted by the CIA might be an acceptable excuse for his not being home on time as his mother requested.

A man in a black suit with a black umbrella opens the door for him and he enters to see Elizaveta sitting primly in the foyer and tapping away at her phone. She jumps up when she sees Arthur.

“Inspector Kirkland!” she exclaims as she shakes his hand. “I’m so pleased that you decided to join the investigation.” She’s dressed as crisply as she was when he’d met her in Kensington, though now her long hair is tied very neatly into a bun, stylishly placed low and off to the side.

“Agent Hedevary,” Arthur replies smoothly. “I was unaware I had a choice in the matter.”

“You don’t,” she retorts with a wide smile. “But I appreciate your cooperation all the same.”

“I’ll help you in any way that I can and this is certainly more exciting than all the paperwork I buried my colleague with, but truly, I don’t see how I could be of all that much use to you.”

Elizaveta hums. “You’re too modest, Inspector. Jones has taken an interest in you. All profiles of him indicate that he is perversely interested in things or people that challenge him and given his high intelligence, they can be few and far between. I wager that you will be a valuable asset in apprehending him.”

“As bait,” Arthur says wryly.

Elizaveta only nods with a sly grin. “If that is what it takes, then yes. As bait.” 

Arthur raises his eyebrow, impressed.

She turns and walks down a corridor, fully expecting Arthur to follow her. “If that were the whole of it though, I would not have asked for you to be made a full part of the investigation. Many of those on my team have been dealing with him for some time. With your background and abilities, you can offer a fresh perspective.” She glances back, pleased that he has kept pace. “You are the only person in any kind of law enforcement capacity who has ever caught him. And you’ve done it twice now.”

“The only one?” Arthur asks. The “law enforcement” distinction doesn’t escape his notice, but he doesn’t press the issue for now. 

“Yes. And you caught him twice,” she reiterates with no further explanation. “Maybe the third time will be the charm, yes?” She stops at the end of the hallway and gestures to an open door on the left. “Most of the paperwork for your security clearance is already completed, but there are still a few more t’s to cross, as it were. You know how it is. After you.”

Arthur steps inside, followed by Elizaveta who closes the door behind them.

A nondescript man in a clean navy suit sits at a desk and instructs Arthur to sit across from him.

“Mr. Kirkland, I am Agent Parks. We are mainly here to clarify your history and familial relationships.”

Arthur settles himself into the chair, noting that Elizaveta remains standing off to the side. “Very well. It seems my free will and agency are now null and void anyway.”

Elizaveta stifles a giggle, but the sarcasm seems to go over Parks’ head and he simply begins the interview. “For the record, you are Arthur Thomas Kirkland, born April 23rd, 1994 in London, England, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You currently live in London with your mother. You were also raised there, but we show that you were expelled from two different secondary schools.” Agent Parks’ lips purse. “Would you please explain the reasons why… for the record?”

Arthur casts a pointed look at Elizaveta. It is clear they already know the reasons and she smiles apologetically. “Yes. The first time was for engaging in sexual activity with another male student, which was prohibited by the institution.” Parks stiffens almost imperceptibly, but Arthur’s eyes miss nothing. “The second time was for disreputable conduct, willful insubordination… and ah, the distribution of ketamine and MDMA.” He finishes with an impertinent sort of fondness and hears Elizaveta snicker behind him, but Parks seems less amused.

“And you somehow then went on to obtain your Bachelor’s degree in Psychology from University College at Oxford, become a police officer, and graduate from the Detective Academy.”

The question attached to the statement is obvious and Arthur suddenly thinks that Americans should leave understatement to those better adapted to its use. To prove it, his answer is an example, “A distinguished and merciful sergeant believed that I had potential. He insisted I could do more and worked very hard to help me. If not for him, I would not be sitting before you. He impressed upon me the importance of reason and observation tempered with full submission to the truth that complete knowledge of any person or situation is impossible and the subsequent need for understanding and  _tact_.” Arthur levels him with a gaze which refuses verbal response.

Agent Parks, in a brief moment of wisdom, says nothing.

“You have my CV, do you not? Will that not be sufficient for the rest of this portion?”

Elizaveta nods at Parks. The man signs checks a few boxes and signs a form before turning to the next page.

“Mr. Kirkland, your mother’s name is Abigail Kirkland, born September 14, 1963 in Gloucester, England?”

“Yes.”

“You also have one older brother, Dylan, and two older half-brothers, Ian and Alistair, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And your father is Oliver Clark, born March 8, 1959 in London, but he and your mother were never married.” Parks’ judgemental tone speaks volumes louder than his words.

Arthur rolls his eyes and casually leans back in the chain. “Yes, Agent Parks and no, my mother has never been married, that would explain how all four of her sons have her last name despite having three different fathers. Mr. Clark is no longer in any of our lives,  _for the record_. Is that all for my immediate family or would you care to impugn my mother’s honor further?” he drolls, the sardonic wit seemingly still lost on the bland American.

Agent Parks glares irately over at Elizaveta, who smiles winningly in return. “Alright, Mr. Kirkland, everything appears to be in order.” He shuffles the papers around on his desk, signing off on certain forms and stapling others. “I do need you to sign this, please.” Parks slides him a pen and a sheet of paper.

Arthur picks up the pen, holding it poised, and scans the form briefly, and then lowers the pen. “Clearance for concealed carry of a firearm?” he asks. “No.  Absolutely not. This is is wholly unnecessary.” He places the pen down and crosses his arms. “Americans. Honestly,” he mumbles.

Parks sighs, exasperated. “This is standard procedure for all CIA agents, Mr. Kir—”

“Well, I’m not a bloody CIA agent. I’m an inspector with the Metropolitan Police Service.” Arthur fumes. He remembers his first encounter with the Thief of Spades, feeling somehow strangely defensive of the young man. No one had needed a weapon then and despite Jones’ teasing, Arthur can easily imagine terror in his bright eyes and boyish face if held at the business end of an actual gun. “I didn’t need a weapon to capture him before. Twice, as you know, Agent Hedevary, so I don’t see why I need one now.”

Elizaveta digs into a bag, then walks forward and drops a shoulder holster and shiny black handgun onto the desk, staring at Arthur piercingly. “You are a detective, yes,” she murmurs, her American accent slipping somewhat, “and I know that you are used to having your way, but this is my investigation... and I know things that you do not,” she finishes pointedly.

Arthur sighs heavily and signs the form.

In less than an hour, he finds himself in the back of a car sitting next to Elizaveta, wearing the shoulder holster and trying to ignore the feel of the gun against his side. It’s not entirely a foreign feeling, but it remains an unwelcome one. “Might I ask where we’re going?” 

Elizaveta stops tapping on her phone and beams brightly at him. “To get you up to speed and to introduce you to the rest of the team.”

Arthur rubs his hand over his face.  _Oh Lord_.


	9. A Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur meets his new colleagues and learns more about the increasingly enigmatic Thief of Spades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this leaves you with more questions than answers, I've done it right XD

“Elizaveta, ma cherie, who is this you have with you?” A tallish man with fair brownish hair and scruff at his chin is the first to greet Agent Hedevary and Arthur. His smile is easy and smooth and his features, including his smoky blue eyes, are very handsome… the only downside being his apparent French origin.

“Francis, this is Inspector Arthur Kirkland with the Metropolitan Police,” Elizaveta grins slyly. “Inspector Kirkland, this is Francis Bonnefoy, my art expert and authenticator as well as a reformed thief, or at least he had better be if he wants to stay out of prison,” she says blithely, more to Francis than Arthur.

“Oui, cherie, of course. Anything you ask of me,  _ma maîtresse cruelle_.”

Arthur regards him suspiciously, but finally holds out his hand in greeting. “Good to meet you, Mr. Bonnefoy.”

Francis reaches for Arthur’s hand slowly, a grin curling on his lips. “Elizaveta, you did not say he is so beautiful.” Rather than shake Arthur’s hand, he raises it to his lips, simultaneously pulling Arthur closer.

Arthur jabs Francis quickly between two ribs and in the space of a few seconds, whirls the taller man around and bends him forward over the conference table, pinning both of Francis’ arms behind his back. “Try that ever again and I’ll break your nose, Frog.”

Francis snorts and rolls his eyes, apparently unperturbed. “The English are so defensive of their personal space and what is the need for it? Anyone who goes near to one is all the more likely to never return.”

Elizaveta nearly giggles and Arthur is suddenly under the impression that he’s being tested… or hazed. “Excellent reflexes, Arthur.”

Arthur releases Francis and straightens his jacket and waistcoat. He adjusts the still foreign shoulder holster and fixes the cuffs of his shirt. “If a frog is all the rest of the team, I quit right now. I don’t care. I’ll leave law enforcement entirely, if that is the threat, and I’ll open a chip shop.”

“Given that you are English, you would likely burn it down straight after your grand opening,” Francis teases.

Arthur fiddles with the watch on his left wrist and nurses the side of his left hand, which he had used to strike Francis, and glares at the Frenchman.

Elizaveta covers her amused smile with the stack of papers in her hand. “No, Inspector, I assure you, there—”

“My apologies, Eliza,” says an impeccable-looking man in his early forties as he shuts the door quietly before entering. His voice is American accented, more so than Elizaveta’s but not entirely. His long, black hair is tied with an elegant band, his black suit is well-tailored, and a pair of rimless eyeglasses rest securely on his nose.

“Oh good, Yao. You’re here. Inspector Kirkland, this is my partner, Yao Wang. He’s an analyst, technically, but he’s also a certified gemologist and his knowledge of jewelry and historical artifacts has been crucial in our investigation. Yao, this is Arthur Kirkland.”

Yao shakes Arthur’s offered hand. “Ah,” he says, appraising Arthur. “The infamous detective with whom Jones is infatuated. It is good to meet you, Inspector,” he says mildly, as if discussing the weather.

Arthur blinks, confused for a moment. “Um. Sorry. What?”

Yao seems about to answer when another man enters. He’s roughly as tall as Francis, but has broader shoulders, neatly combed white-blond hair, and a stern face with kind eyes.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he says in a moderate German accent, turning immediately to Arthur. “Inspector Kirkland. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Ludwig Beilschmidt with Interpol.”

Arthur grasps Ludwig’s hand firmly when he offers it. “Beilschmidt, interesting. One of my colleagues has that name, of course he was born in England.”

“It is not an uncommon name in Germany,” Ludwig replies.

“Alright,” Elizaveta says, “The primary objective today is to get Arthur filled in on whatever he doesn’t already know.”

Yao, Francis, and Ludwig take a seat at the table and Arthur follows their example. Elizaveta turns the lights down and brings up a screen on the far wall, upon which a blown up version of Alfred’s intake photo from New Scotland Yard appears.

“Alfred Jones is a ghost,” Elizaveta explains. “We have yet to find anyone by that name on any record who matches the description and details of the Thief of Spades. What we do know is the Thief of Spades has been operating for three years, though we suspect that his career began before that. It is difficult to say how long before as he is quite young.”

“All estimates have him between eighteen and twenty-four years old,” Ludwig interjects. “He is approximately 178cm tall, or around five feet, ten inches, his hair is reddish blond or he dyes it that color regularly, his eyes are blue, and he wears corrective lenses.”

“He does?” Arthur asks.

Elizaveta changes the picture to one where Alfred is wearing glasses, walking along the street. The image does reveal that the lenses have correction and are not merely a disguise.

Arthur is caught off-guard by the image: Alfred looks determined and serious, nothing at all like the lackadaisical, flamboyant youthful man Arthur has encountered previously. His hair is somewhat caught in the wind, but even so, one little cowlick sticks up apart from the rest. The stern expression on his face only highlights how young he actually is.

“All of his profiles indicate that he’s extremely intelligent and enjoys being challenged,” Elizaveta says, repeating what she had told Arthur earlier. “Rather than being very tech savvy or well-educated, he has a high degree of emotional intelligence and has been known to run confidence schemes. He dislikes being bored. He’s not arrogant though, or sociopathic. He doesn’t think himself a chess master, he’s just…” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “reckless,” she finishes.

Yao clears his throat in a clear attempt to give his partner a moment to breathe. “He seems not to target anything in particular. He seems to steal whatever catches his eye. For the most part, his tastes run toward cut gems and high carat jewelry. He mainly targets old aristocratic houses and estates, hence his presence in Europe, but he is not above stealing from museums, as with the Green Faerie, which has yet to be recovered. We also know that he has stolen multiple paintings and sculptures”

“He is a competent forger when it comes to art,” Francis interjects, “though not at all perfect. He is better served for forging documents,” he adds dismissively.

“What sort of documents?” Arthur asks, brow furrowing.

Elizaveta waves her hand, “He’s been known to fake identification or visas and the like.”

Puzzled by her untroubled reaction, Arthur asks, “For whom?” He fully expects the answer to be “whoever pays him the most.”

Ludwig speaks again, this time with nearly imperceptible fondness, “Immigrants. Refugees, mainly. Whatever he gives them gets them close enough to someone legitimate and it is almost never discovered that the papers were fake until it is too late to revoke status.”

“It’s still illegal, Ludwig,” Elizaveta responds quickly.

“Yes, I know.”

Arthur gazes ever more pensively at the photograph. The people in this room probably know everything they could possibly know about Jones and yet Arthur doubts any of them could say what truly goes on in his head. He wonders how much like Elizaveta’s profile Alfred really is.

Yao coughs, again seemingly to help Elizaveta. “He has a few known associates, but there are only two with whom he interacts regularly, a Japanese programmer by the name of Kiku Honda and a Russian fence whom we know by his alias, Ivan Braginski. Honda operates above board or uses family connections to keep his hands clean. He never provides anything directly to Jones, schematics, plans, software… nothing that might implicate himself.”

“Braginski is Jones’ oldest associate and if Alfred needs help getting rid of something hot, he always takes it to Ivan,” Elizaveta picks up. “The full extent of their relationship is unknown, but it’s pretty obvious that they’re very close.

Arthur nods and hums his understanding.

The hours tick by as they fill Arthur in on some of Alfred’s early work, some of his favorite tricks, some of his most high profile heists and finally, at around six o’clock, Arthur stands up and removes his shoulder holster.

“Well, this has been entertaining, to say the least, but I really must be going. I believe I can see my own way out.”

“I beg your pardon?” Elizaveta says. “Where are you going?”

Arthur shrugs on his light spring coat. “Home. I can leave this here, can’t I?” he gestures to the shoulder holster, not caring if the answer is no.

“But—!”

Arthur shakes his head and looks around at his new team. Everything about this is just so odd. He’s more interested in the Thief of Spades than ever, to be certain, but he knows he has jumped head-first into a situation where no one is quite what they seem. “I promised my mother and we’re clearly not going to catch him tonight, are we?” he asks with a charming grin at Elizaveta.

“Oh alright,” she concedes.

Arthur walks out of the room and sighs in relief. It’s short-lived, however, when he remembers the reason his mother wanted him home on time:

He has a date.


	10. A Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets stood up. It’s upsetting for all the wrong reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh........... whatever you were expecting, this likely isn't it ;P

Alfred sits at the bar in the quaint little restaurant in which he is supposed to meet his date. The case holding the Green Faerie is tucked in his coat pocket. He’s early, so they haven’t sat him at a table yet.

He wants to stay. He wants so badly to stay and see Inspector Kirkland, to get to know him and interact with him up close for real.

But Alfred’s worst suspicions were confirmed earlier that day by a friend: Detective Inspector Arthur Kirkland has been officially brought into the CIA as a temporary special consultant under the supervision of Agent Elizaveta Hedevary.

His hand wraps around the gem case. It’s too bad that he can’t stay, he really was going to give the emerald back.

* * *

Arthur doesn’t have time to go home after leaving the nondescript office building which apparently serves the CIA in London, or at least partially serves it. The other parts appear to be shared equally between a marketing and social media agency and a company which ostensibly has something to do with pharmaceuticals of some kind. Instead, he heads straight to the restaurant, which is rather near his house anyway.

When he doesn’t make it home on time, his mother calls him.

“Arthur, dear, where are you?”

“Hi, Mum. I’m on my way to the restaurant, the office is a bit further from home than I thought.”

“You promise?”

“What? Yes, of course, I’m not going to leave the poor bloke just sitting there. I’ll give him a proper brush-off in person,” Arthur quips, bracing himself for the ensuing ire.

Abigail inhales furiously, before scolding on the exhale. “Arthur Thomas, you will absolutely not give him the brush-off. You will sit and have a nice dinner with Freddie. He’s a lovely, sweet young man and he’s very kind to have agreed to go out with you, considering you are a compulsive workaholic who lives with his mother.”

“Oi, ouch, Mum.”

He can hear her smirk over the phone. “If the shoe fits, dear.”

“Right. Well, I’m here so I will see you when I get home.” Arthur hangs up before she can say anything else. He stands at the door to the restaurant, looking up at the sign. He sighs. This day has already been so tiring. Hopefully he can give the poor man some kind of speech about long hours and overbearing mothers. His mother is right after all, what sort of self-respecting man would want to go out with someone like Arthur? In addition to being a workaholic who lives with his mother, Arthur is also a neat freak and nearly a human lie detector who would rather stay in and read than do anything else and, if his last boyfriend is to be believed, is not very good in bed.

Feeling sufficiently down on himself, Arthur reaches for the door handle, only for the door to open out towards him, a hurried figure brushing past. Arthur thinks he sees a familiar streak of reddish blond hair, but convinces himself it’s nothing.

He reaches the hostess and smiles tiredly. “Excuse me, miss, I’m meeting someone here, my name is—”

“Oh, are you Inspector Kirkland?” the girl asks brightly.

“Um, yes,” Arthur answers, “How did you--?”

“Lord, your eyes are just as green as he said,” she giggles. “Your date said that he’s very sorry. He left you this note,” she says, handing Arthur a folded note written on the paper the wait staff must use to write down orders.

 _Inspector Kirkland,_  
_Sorry I had to stand you up,_  
_but it seems you’ve made some new friends._  
_They don’t play very nice._  
_I’ll keep the Faerie for now, since_  
_I didn’t get to see your eyes._

 _Give my best to Abigail._  
♠︎

Arthur’s first instinct is to crumple the note, but his police training stops him as the note could be valuable evidence. But Jones knows his mother? How!?

Freddie.

Fred.

Alfred.

Bollocks.

“May I have a bag or a folder or anything to carry this in?” he asks the hostess urgently.

The girl looks flustered. “I—I think I’ve only got this,” she says handing him a paper napkin.

Arthur carefully folds the note back up and tucks it inside the napkin to avoid further contaminating it. “Thank you, miss. The man who left this, what did he look like?”

Further flustered, the girl answers, “He was… blond… I think. He had glasses, but he had really,  _really_  blue eyes. I… I remember…”

“Remember what?” Arthur prompts.

“Well, I thought he was very beautiful,” she admits shyly. “He seemed sad, though.”

“Thank you.” Arthur dashes out of the restaurant and nearly runs home. It had been the Thief of Spades who had brushed past him. Damn it. He’d been so close.  _We’re not going to catch him tonight, are we?_  Arthur had apparently cursed himself.

He half-sprints all the way home. Bursting through the front door, he brandishes the napkin-wrapped note at his mother. “Mum! Who the hell was that you set me up with?”

Abigail gasps at her son, confused and alarmed. “Freddie? He’s a young man I met at the market. I had him over for tea. He didn’t hurt you, did he, Arthur? Did he stand you up? That’s terrible, he seemed like such a good lad.”

“That’s not the point, Mum! He’s the bloody Thief of Spades!” Arthur’s mind races, trying to figure out what information is needed and in what order, all the while stumbling over the fact that Alfred Jones has been inside Arthur’s own house. “When… when was he here?” he asks, catching his breath.

“Spades? That jewel thief the CIA wants you to catch? I don’t think so, Arthur. Freddie was here just a few days ago. He seemed very nice. I doubt he’s a criminal.”

Arthur carefully unwraps the note to show his mother. “Mum. His name is Alfred Jones. He  _is_  the Thief of Spades.”

Abigail frowns. “Oh, he's such a thoughtful young man. Well, I suppose he can’t be blamed for standing you up then.”

“Mum! Are you taking his side!?” Arthur demands, exasperated. “Never mind.” He opens his contact list on his phone and swipes to Elizaveta. “Agent Hedevary. It’s Kirkland. I—I think we have a situation.”


	11. A Hell of a Drug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur lets his guard down at a bar and pays a price for it. Alfred’s got an axe to grind with Francis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we go from 0 to... well not 60 but... like 45 in span of two chapters. Let’s just say I took pity on all of you.
> 
> ...well hey! I wanna see them kiss too! But we gotta build up to it! ;P

It had only been the fact that the CIA had just completed Arthur’s background check that managed to keep his mum from becoming a suspected accessory to the Thief of Spades.

Otherwise her absolute (and rather baffling) unwillingness to cooperate would have gotten her in serious trouble.

“No,” Abigail had replied sternly when Elizaveta had asked for a statement and had said no more after that.

Elizaveta had been fairly exasperated the next day in the office. “Well, he’s clearly fixated on you, Inspector. Do you have any idea why?”

“It is very strange,” Francis had interjected dryly, “so many Americans are tasteless, but I always think Alfred to be refined more than them.”

Arthur had ignored him and told Elizaveta he hadn’t the faintest notion and he still doesn’t. Thoughts of that night and the ensuing days might be more forefront in his mind at the moment, but instead, as he blinks blearily awake, notably uncomfortable, the facts of the current case are more relevant.

A painting that a wealthy family was going to put up for auction was revealed to be a forgery. Francis had insisted that Jones was behind it.

It’s the frog’s words that ring in Arthur’s mind:

_“It is his. I know by now very well. Yet it is a mess even for him. Of course, he is only a mediocre forger mainly. His brushstrokes are utterly savage.”_

If the strange sensations crossing over Arthur’s torso are any indication, Francis is very wrong. Jones’ brushstrokes are nothing but precise, delicate, and meticulous.

The heavy pounding in Arthur’s skull might be distorting his perceptions slightly, however. His eyes attempt to focus, but he’s aware of a bright spotlight on him, surrounded otherwise by almost complete blackness. “Agh, fuck,” he groans. “Wh—?”

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Alfred exclaims, smiling as he looks up at Arthur from his spot between Arthur’s thighs. “Careful though, Rohypnol’s a hell of a drug.” He balances the pallet of paints in his hand (perfectly safe body paints, of course) and places one of the two brushes he’d been holding between his teeth. He loads the other with paint and leans in close to Arthur again. “Hold still, okay?” he says around the brush. Idly, Alfred wonders how often Inspector Kirkland works out; his body is such a pleasing canvas.

Arthur attempts to move on instinct, but finds himself tightly secured to a chair. “You drugged me!?” he shouts indignantly. He prays that the dizzying number of butterflies rising up in his stomach at the sight of Jones knelt between his legs with such fascinated concentration in his eyes is the result of the drugs and nothing more.

Alfred grins and stops painting; taking the brush from his mouth, he responds, “Would you rather I just hit you over the head? Anyway, it didn’t take much. You’re kind of a lightweight. You should probably be more careful when you drink in public.” It had been concerning to Alfred, seeing Arthur in the bar earlier, letting some guy just buy him drink after drink.

Then parts of it come back to Arthur: the pub, the round of drinks someone bought for everyone in celebration of… something. Bloody hell, that was obviously a trap.

He can’t see what Jones is painting on him, but there are open tubes of body paint, a cup of cleanish water and a cup with brushes in it scattered around him on the floor, which appears to be made of concrete. Arthur is relieved to see he still has his trousers and shoes on, although he can’t say he really expected them to be missing. Jones is often ostentatious, Arthur has learned, but rarely all that obscene.

Arthur notes that the thief himself is dressed in a fitted black t-shirt, revealing toned forearms and biceps, black pants and presumably black shoes, though Arthur can’t see them with how Jones is kneeling. His hands are covered in paint splattered latex gloves. “Where are we?” he asks.

Alfred looks up at his captive from behind his glasses and rolls his eyes. “Oh sure, ask the boring questions.” He isn’t surprised though. Arthur is a detective first and foremost and he’s likely trying to ascertain basic facts before anything else, but Alfred knows better than to play that game.

“Alright. Fine. To the point then. Why me?”

Alfred leans in closer to his canvas, eyes intent on his painting, if only so Inspector Kirkland won’t see his cheeks stain pink. “I can’t resist anything I find beautiful,” he murmurs and then clears his throat. “Besides, I had to prove to Hedevary’s pet cheese wheel that I’m totally an awesome painter. But I can’t paint on him; he’s probably got a lot of chest hair.”

“Y-you’re not painting something lewd or gross, are you?” Arthur knows he should ask the obvious questions, like how does Jones know that Francis insulted his painting skills or, more importantly, what is it about Arthur that the Thief of Spades finds beautiful. He wants to, but is too flustered by the quiet declaration and amused by their apparent shared dislike of Francis to ask those questions. And he is somewhat concerned about what state he’ll be in when his colleagues find him, as that is surely where this is headed.

Alfred snorts, offended. As if he would defile such a lovely canvas, or indeed humiliate the Inspector in front of his team. “Only if you find Monet’s water lilies to be lewd or gross,” Alfred says the last two words in a loose imitation of Arthur’s accent and then grins. “Only my finest work for you, Inspector. I want you to think nice things about me when you have to wash it off,” he says and winks at Arthur in a way he really hopes is flirtatious.

“You want my mum to see what you’ve done to me?” Arthur fires back to avoid more of those butterflies, but also to gauge Jones’ reaction. “Here she’s been raving about what a ‘lovely young man’ you are.”

Alfred beams at the mention of Abigail. “I’ll bet you the emerald that she likes it and thinks I did a good job,” he offers on impulse.

Arthur raises his eyebrow, noting that he’s starting to become sore where his hands are tied behind his back. “You still have it?”

Alfred nods. “Duh. I was going to give it back to you as a present on our date, but you joined up with Agent Hedevary and she likes to say unkind things about me.” Alfred’s lip curls up minutely in disgust. “I’m not who she thinks.”

“Unkind things? She’s only doing her job, Jones.” Arthur frowns. Elizaveta has expressed dislike of the Thief of Spades, but Arthur would hardly classify anything she has said as particularly cruel.

“She makes you carry a gun,” Alfred nods to Arthur’s shoulder holster, which is lying at the edge of the light. It had saddened him so much to see it. He so badly does not want Arthur to see him like Hedevary does. “I’m not violent. I’m… a lot of other things, but not that. Remember that. Please.”

Arthur looks into what might be the most sincere expression he’s ever seen on anyone. “I will,” he promises.

Alfred nods, smiling just a little, loads the second brush with paint and continues working. It’s coming along so well, despite the fact that Arthur’s stomach is clearly very sensitive. Alfred decides to save that information for another time, rather than tease him now. “I’m almost done. I’m not who you think I am either, Inspector.”

Arthur’s breath catches as he tries not to squirm under Alfred’s paintbrush. “So you’re not the world-renowned jewel thief known as the Thief of Spades?”

Alfred smirks. “I didn’t steal that paining. I did the copy, but it was never intended to be sold. It was just a favor for a friend.” He puts his brushes down, places his gloved hands on Arthur’s knees and surveys his work. He’s certainly not entirely satisfied with it, but time has run out and it will have to do. It’s exquisite enough the show that stupid Bonnefoy. Alfred feels a twinge of regret at having to move away from Arthur when he’s been so close for the past few hours, but it must be done.

Arthur watches as Alfred collects his supplies into a plain, black backpack, feeling the chill of wherever they are more acutely now that Alfred’s body heat is not near him. “You’re going to leave me here, I take it.”

Alfred slings the backpack over both of his shoulders. “Yeah, don’t worry though. They’ll be here soon. Make sure not to let surrender monkey get too close of a look. Oh, and let me know what Abigail thinks.”

Before Arthur can reply, the thief is gone.

It can’t be more than three minutes later before he hears doors bursting open and the voices of his team, as well as several others.

“Arthur? Are you alright?” Elizaveta asks, turning off the spotlight just as overhead lights come on.

Arthur winces at the change. “Yes. I’m fine. You just missed him.”

Francis steps in front of her, his face suddenly disconcertingly close to Arthur’s chest.

It’s nothing like when Alfred was that close. Arthur wants someone to just untie him already so he can clock the frog very soundly. “Get away, Francis.”

Francis ignores him. “It is the best work I ever have seen from him,” he muses.

Someone from forensics comes over, takes numerous pictures of Arthur which are certain to be very compromising and awkward later, and finally unties Arthur, handing him a spare jacket.

Arthur pulls on the jacket, being careful despite himself not to disrupt Alfred’s work. He picks up his shoulder holster without putting it on and heads for the nearest apparent exit, wanting nothing more than to go home and take a very long shower.

“Where are you going?” Elizaveta calls after him.

“Home.” Arthur answers without looking back. The Thief of Spades, he thinks, is a hell of a drug.


	12. Impression Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred F. Jones is redeemed and Abigail helps put her son back on the right path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was getting a bit long and the second part will bring a rating jump with it, so I split it up.
> 
> Also, I couldn't go another moment without vindicating poor Alfred's reputation.

Arthur slams the front door, causing Abigail to jump where she had quietly been doing her needlepoint in the sitting room.

“I quit,” Arthur informs her. “I’m going to become a bassist in a punk outfit or a professional football hooligan or maybe open a pub which only serves Kool-Aid and gin,” he rants half deliriously as he stands near the doorway, hanging the jacket on the coat rack.

Abigail stands up and gets a good look at him. The striking swaths of tranquil blues, indigos, and greens painted across her son’s bare chest concern her far less than the forlorn, distressed expression on his face. “What happened?”

“I—he…” Arthur grips the back of an armchair to steady himself as more of the evening at the pub comes back to him. “Jones. He—” Arthur places one hand on his forehead as the commotion caused by the announcement of the free round of drinks rings in his mind. He remembers the drinks being passed around, but he’s certain that he never got one himself. That would mean that the stranger Arthur had been letting buy him drinks all evening had drugged him. As disturbing as the realization is, it’s still less so than the clear revelation that Alfred Jones, the Thief of Spades, had saved him and then declined to take credit for it. Jones had even let Arthur believe he  _had_  been the one to drug him, but…  _why?_  “He—”

Abigail rushes over, puts her arm around Arthur, and guides him to the sofa. “Arthur, do we need to take you to hospital?” she asks, brushing his perpetually unkempt hair back from his face to get a better view of his eyes.

“This bloke at the pub… he kept buying my drinks… he drugged me and… Jones came to my rescue, I think.” Arthur massages his temples, hoping that the action will make the words coming out of his mouth sound less surreal. “Of course, he then kidnapped me and,” Arthur gestures to the paint with incredulous mirth, “did this.”

Abigail gets caught in a conflicted state of alarm and amusement. “Well, it is quite lovely. Very nice brushstrokes, I’d say.”

Arthur groans. “Please don’t say that, Mum.” He can’t help but laugh a little at the ridiculousness of it all.

She reaches out and strokes his hair. “Now I know you’re determined to take after me in all of the worst ways, but you’re a police officer for God’s sake. You know better than to take drinks from strangers.”

Arthur leans his head on her shoulder. “I know, Mum.”

Abigail places her hand on his knee, noticing the handprints on his trousers in the same place, but not saying anything. “It really is alright if you want to quit, you know. You’re a smart lad, you can do anything you want. You don’t have to be a detective. What did Agent Hedevary say about all this?”

“I don’t know, I left. She’s likely furious with me.”

“Is this what you want? To be on her team and chase after a jewel thief who, according to what you’ve told me, returns half of what he steals and has never hurt anyone?” Abigail asks seriously. “I thought you wanted to be a detective to help people, Arthur.”

Her words are a shock to his brain that clears it, but still leaves Arthur feeling unsteady. “I do want to help people.”

“Who are you helping by putting Alfred in prison?”

Hearing his mother call Jones by his first name suddenly makes it all seem so much more grounded, makes Jones seem like a human being, rather than the puzzle Arthur has been so intent on solving. He shakes his head slightly and grins despite himself. “He’s charmed you, hasn’t he?”

Abigail laughs. “Yes, I suppose. More so now, if he really did save your sorry arse.”

Arthur scoffs. “I still can’t believe you had him over for tea. I can’t believe he sought you out like that. All for what? To unsettle me or something? What’s he playing at?”

She turns to kiss the top of Arthur’s head. “He’s got you too, love. You like people you can’t figure out right away, you always have. Maybe there’s something you can do to help him, hm?”

The wheels begin turning in Arthur’s head. “Maybe.”

She pats his knee. “Go wash, although it’ll be a shame to lose that pretty painting.” She stands up and goes to the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea and biscuits for you.”


	13. Impression Part 1.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred can’t just let the man _get away_ with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No rating jump yet, just wanted to give Alfred a chance to exact his revenge ;)

Alfred misses the warmth he felt from being near Inspector Kirkland as he stealthily makes his way to his next destination after leaving the warehouse where he’d left him for Hedevary to find. He grins wryly, hoping she brought Francis, but also somewhat regretting leaving the detective in such a compromising position for the Frenchman to see.

Alfred understands the slight twist in a person’s mind that causes them to have a hard time keeping their hands off of things they really should keep their hands off of, but Francis can go too far sometimes, in Alfred’s opinion.

…And would-be date rapists always go too far and need to be handled with less panache and much more public humiliation. Alfred easily scales the side of the building to enter the apartment of the man who had slipped Inspector Kirkland the Rohypnol.

It had hurt to let Arthur think that it was Alfred who had drugged him and he hopes that the Inspector will forgive him, but he had wanted to deal with this bastard himself.

Surely, it would be very embarrassing for Arthur if Alfred had just turned over the man to New Scotland Yard. Alfred would have hated for all of Arthur’s friends and colleagues to hear that someone had roofied him and that Arthur had been so carelessly accepting drinks from such a person. They might have thought less of the Inspector and Arthur is very proud and very independent.

It’s okay if he thinks Alfred drugged him because at least he can save face in front of his friends.

Besides, Alfred is going to have much more fun dealing with this asshole himself.

The man is sound asleep in his bed, snoring away and, fortunately for Alfred, only sleeps in his underwear. The fact that he can slumber so soundly after what he did infuriates Alfred. How dare this bastard think of even looking at Inspector Kirkland? Alfred only makes himself angrier as he realizes that Arthur can’t possibly be the only person this man has done this to.

Deciding he can’t just let the man get away without any kind of legal consequences, Alfred scours his apartment, finding more rohypnol as well as many other substances which are likely to get the man arrested. Without knowing who any of the bastard’s victims are, Alfred can’t very well get him charged with rape, but he can get him charged with drug possession. He leaves everything untouched so as not to tamper with any evidence.

Hopefully, the police can do the rest.

But Alfred still has to take his own revenge. After all, this piece of shit forced Alfred to leave Inspector Kirkland thinking awful things about him.

By only the light of a small flashlight, the Thief of Spades furiously mixes a pigment which stains the skin, not dissimilar to the effects of henna, but it works immediately and lasts for much longer.

On the man’s forehead, he stains the word “Caution:” and on right cheek, he stains the word “date” and on the left, “RAPIST.” The man doesn’t even move or stir or do anything other than continue snoring. Alfred writes that phrase, “Caution: Date Rapist” all over the man’s chest. He paints “ask me where to buy roofies” on the man’s hands and forearms.

When he’s finished, Alfred picks up the man’s phone and dials emergency services. “I have information about a case of drug possession and possible date rape,” he says in a perfect BBC accent and gives the man’s name and home address. When the operator asks who Alfred is, he states, “A concerned party. I think he will try to hurt someone again.”

Alfred collects his things, checks to make sure he didn’t leave anything behind, and walks out of the building, keeping his head low. It’s only around 6am, so no one pays him any attention, but he smirks to himself as he heads in the opposite direction of the patrol cars pulling up.


	14. Impression Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur works through the Thief of Spades case in his conscious mind. His subconscious mind takes a crack at it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is now rated M. Be advised.
> 
> IMPORTANT: This chapter contains descriptions of smut as well as vague descriptions of blood and a gunshot wound. It mentions death. NO ONE dies, bleeds, is shot, or gets boned.
> 
> Please enjoy but also don't kill me.

In the bathroom, Arthur spends a long time staring at the mirror. He cannot deny that Alfred’s work is practically flawless, a little smudged here and there from Arthur’s movement and from the jacket, but still impeccable. He touches a spot near his diaphragm with the tip of his finger, expects the image to ripple like water, but instead he only startles himself.

The last time anyone was that close to Arthur even partially naked, it was his ex-boyfriend, the one who threw him out around the time he’d first encountered the Thief of Spades. He’d said a lot of hurtful things about Arthur and Arthur knows it had only been because the wanker was already seeing someone else. Even so, the switch from praising Arthur as sexy and desirable to condemning him as the worst lover ever had left an imprint.

He places his hand over the lower part of the painting. The paint is dry now, so it doesn’t transfer to his palm. Arthur remembers the the soft stippling of Alfred’s paintbrushes against his skin and how it made his abdominal muscles flutter. He remembers how Alfred had looked, kneeling on the concrete, with the pure intensity and wonder of an artist written all over his face.

If anyone has ever looked at him like that before, Arthur is unaware of it.

_“I can’t resist anything I find beautiful.”_

That’s what the thief had said, but Arthur can’t quite fathom what he meant. Objectively, Arthur can acknowledge that Alfred finds him beautiful, but in what context? Alfred’s gaze had been rapt to be certain and Arthur’s first inclination is to assume that the thief simply finds him to be fascinating the way most people find a work of art to be so. That is likely part of it, but there had been something more than appreciation in Alfred’s eyes and it might even be properly classified as desire, but that still feels incomplete.

Arthur hesitates to name it, but knows that being as logical and detached as possible is crucial to the investigation and the reality is inescapable: Alfred had looked at Arthur like he is something miraculous, something sublime.

His hand falls from his stomach as he stares himself down. Some _thing,_ he tells himself, not some _one._

Arthur pulls himself away from the mirror in order to avoid the existential dread which threatens to infiltrate his veins. He turns on the taps for the shower and parts of his mind which are always firmly in detective-mode instead focus on trying to process everything else the thief had said.

First, the fact that Alfred had known that Francis had insulted his skills as a painter. Although, given just a little bit more thought, Arthur realizes that it is entirely probable that Alfred had already known what Francis thinks on that matter.

Over the time that Arthur has been a member of Elizaveta’s team, he has learned about her agreement with Francis Bonnefoy. For most of his life, Francis was a forger and an art thief, pursued by Interpol and the French authorities, until he was caught by Elizaveta. She had been sympathetic to him and now gives him protection from prison under the condition that he work as part of her team and that he is on his best behavior at all times.

Arthur assumes “best behavior” translates only to keeping his hands off of paintings and sculptures, because Elizaveta seems rather annoyingly permissive of Francis’ habit of invading Arthur’s personal space, although she is equally permissive of whatever method Arthur chooses to use to insist that the frog keep his hands to himself.

Arthur likes Francis well enough when he is across the room or sitting at an opposite corner of the table. It is rare that anyone can match wits with him and Francis does a respectable job of it. Francis is also very discerning and well-educated in art and art history and seems to have a true appreciation for the whole human endeavor of art, from the classic to the avant-garde to the every day. Rather than being a snob, Francis appreciates effort, talent, and good execution wherever he sees it.

Except for Alfred, apparently.

To Arthur’s understanding, Francis and Alfred had several times interfered with each other’s professional lives and Alfred had twice interfered with one of Francis’ more personal matters, though the Frenchman has declined to elaborate.

It is also entirely possible, however, that Alfred has friends in the CIA. It would certainly explain why he has always eluded capture until Arthur met him. The Metropolitan Police Service had not been in direct cooperation with American intelligence at the time and there would have been no one to tip off the Thief of Spades.

Arthur stands a few moments more in front of the mirror. Telling himself that it is strictly for investigative purposes, he grabs his phone and takes a photo of Alfred’s work before the shower begins to fill the bathroom with steam.

He steps into the shower and watches the water-soluble paint run down his body, pool for a moment in the tub and then slip down the drain. The spray from the shower is hot, but it feels good against Arthur’s sore back and arms. For awhile, he only stands with his arms at his sides, unable to bring himself to scrub the remaining paint away.

Arthur knows that there are things Elizaveta isn’t sharing with him, things that he probably doesn’t have sufficient clearance to know, so he can hardly begin to guess at what she might hold against Alfred, but the fact that she could have a deeper grudge than merely the frustrations of her job, as Alfred insinuated, does not surprise Arthur in any way. While nothing she has ever said has been particularly “unkind” on its own, the frequency with which she derides Alfred and the bitterness of her tone lend credence to Alfred’s warning.

Yet Arthur has read the files on the Thief of Spades forward and back and he cannot remember any instance of Alfred directly or intentionally harming anyone. He is, as Elizaveta said, a ghost. He goes in, he takes what he likes, and then disappears without a trace. He has never existed, nor does he truly exist unless he is immediately present.

Arthur also remembers what she said to him when he’d refused to sign the concealed carry form, that she knows things about the Thief of Spades that he does not.

The level of her ire, though, does not mesh with the fact that Alfred had kidnapped Arthur, knowing Arthur had been drugged, partially stripped him, tied him to a chair, and still did nothing more than cover him with perfectly harmless body paint. He’d had Arthur’s gun; he could have done a lot worse than simply paint a stunning homage to Monet all over Arthur’s torso.

And his only explanation had been to blush and mumble that he cannot resist anything he finds beautiful.

Arthur finally pours soap into his palm, lathers it up and begins wiping away the rest of the paint. The suds turn a pretty bluish green. He considers the possibility that Alfred is some form of spectacularly insane narcissist or sociopath, but when he remembers those blue eyes looking up at him, it doesn’t seem plausible. Arthur is a good detective and good detectives rely on facts, but they also rely on their instincts.

Once all the paint is gone, Arthur shampoos his hair and stands still in the shower a bit longer to rinse off.

That leaves Alfred’s last statement: if the copy of the painting hadn’t been intended for sale, then what had it been for and how did it end up at the auction house? And who is the friend Alfred mentioned? What was the favor? Arthur wishes he had asked, but the drugs were fogging his brain then even more than they are now.

Arthur turns off the taps and steps out of the shower. As he dries himself off, he considers his next course of action.

Elizaveta has one view of Alfred and she has gathered much evidence to support her opinion. Arthur wonders if she looked at evidence which would have contradicted it.

Alfred clearly takes issue with her view and his actions disprove her opinion rather soundly.

Arthur isn’t certain which of them is telling more of the truth, but he does know one thing: Elizaveta has already decided Alfred is guilty in this particular case and will only be looking for confirmation of that decision.

But, as Chief Inspector Carter had said, Arthur is to show them all what real investigative technique is, so he decides that’s what he will do. It can’t hurt to at least ask a few questions to see if what Alfred says is true. Arthur doesn’t doubt that Alfred is guilty of many of the things his file alleges he has done, but he knows that what those files contain is not the full story; it never is. He also knows that it is immoral and unjust to accuse and potentially convict a person for something they didn’t do, even if they did do many other things.

If Alfred did steal the painting, Arthur will do as he is meant to and follow Elizaveta’s lead.

If Alfred didn’t steal the painting, if there is another explanation, Arthur is going to find it.

Arthur pulls on clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, doesn’t bother to do anything with his hair because he has been losing that battle from the day he was born, and goes downstairs. He sits at the table with his mum, has one cup of tea and half a biscuit. They drink in contemplative silence and when he’s finished, he kisses her cheek and goes upstairs.

He turns out the light, pitches himself into bed, and drifts off to sleep immediately.

Arthur falls through a whirl of colors and sounds and when he opens his eyes, he’s looking down at Alfred, knelt between his legs once more. The painting covers Arthur’s chest, untouched. He sits in the chair, but his hands are unbound this time.

Alfred looks at him as he did before, but the tubes of paint and brushes and cups of water are gone. So are Alfred’s clothes. “Relax, Inspector, it’s just a dream.” His nimble fingers make deft work of the button and zip of Arthur’s trousers.

Arthur is certain that Alfred is correct. The light is softer this time and shines off of Alfred’s lips when he licks them after freeing Arthur’s half-hard cock from his pants.

“Let me guess,” Arthur huffs as Alfred strokes him, “you can’t—ah—resist anything you find beautiful.” He gasps and his hips jerk upward as Alfred flicks his tongue over the tip.

“You’re so smart, Inspector,” Alfred purrs before taking half of Arthur’s fully hard prick into his mouth. He sucks on it fervently, cheeks hollowed and his blond head bobbing up and down.

Arthur loses the ability to breathe and consequently the ability to speak until all he can do is gasp uselessly while Alfred sends vibrant sparks of pleasure through his veins. His fingers curl into Alfred’s hair and force the thief down, though he goes very willingly.

Alfred seems perfectly content with Arthur’s cock partly invading his throat and hums in satisfaction. He braces himself by placing his hands on Arthur’s knees, but makes no attempt to pull back. He encourages Arthur to thrust his hips, holding his mouth open and winking at him. Alfred’s right hand moves from Arthur’s knee to his own cock and he squeezes himself languidly.

It’s so good, Arthur thinks, but it’s not enough and it’s just a dream, after all. He tugs Alfred’s hair until Alfred releases him.

“You coulda come in my mouth,” Alfred slurs with a sloppy grin.

Throwing a devilish and disheveled smirk back at the thief, Arthur replies, “Thank you, but I’d rather watch you ride me.”

Rather than crawl over Arthur’s thighs like a sultry cat, Alfred jumps up excitedly and kisses him deeply. He straddles Arthur, biting his own lip and moaning loudly as he slides himself down onto Arthur’s cock. Alfred whimpers once Arthur is fully inside him. He wraps his arms around Arthur tightly, his face buried against Arthur’s neck. “God, it’s so good. It’s perfect. You’re so gorgeous.” He rocks experimentally and cries out. “Fuck, Arthur!”

Arthur plants his hands firmly on Alfred’s hips, again at a loss for words. Alfred is so tight around him, so hot and utterly amazing. Feeling Alfred trembling and vibrating with euphoria in his arms, feeling Alfred’s warm, stuttered breath against his skin, feeling Alfred’s arousal twitching against Arthur’s stomach nearly sends Arthur into his own blissful oblivion.

The heat and sweat from their bodies melts the paint on Arthur’s skin and smudges it between them.

Arthur rolls Alfred’s hips into his, groaning as Alfred’s walls squeeze him. They easily find a rhythm that has them both short of breath. Alfred mewls and pants against Arthur’s shoulder, until Arthur’s cock strikes him in just the right away and he cries out sharply. He clings desperately to Arthur, though his head falls back and exposes his neck. Arthur grunts and sinks his teeth into Alfred’s skin as Alfred tightens even more around him. It’s the most amazing thing he can remember feeling.

Alfred fists his fingers in Arthur’s hair and pulls him back to kiss him all over his face. “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, Inspector,” he repeats until it’s a litany of nonsense.

“Who cares?” Arthur hears his voice say, though his mouth doesn’t move. He thrusts up into Alfred and gripping the thief’s hips hard enough to bruise. He reaches between them and wraps his fingers around Alfred’s cock.

Alfred is undone in only a few strokes and he spends all over the paint on Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur’s orgasm slams into him like a wrecking ball, shattering him, and when the pieces put themselves back together, Alfred is curled around him, nuzzling him and kissing his neck. Arthur feels himself slip out of Alfred and he holds the thief close.

The spotlight suddenly turns on and focuses on them. Arthur tries to see what’s going on, but Alfred only latches on harder.

“Help me, Inspector,” he whispers urgently in Arthur’s ear.

Elizaveta comes storming up. In one fluid motion, she picks up Arthur’s gun from where Alfred had placed it earlier, removes it from the holster and shoots Alfred in the back.

“Please, Arthur,” Alfred mutters before blood blurbles up in his mouth. The bullet pierces him all the way through and his blood splatters all over the paint on Arthur’s chest. He collapses and goes sickeningly still, becomes grotesquely heavy.

Elizaveta grins at Arthur and it’s only then that he realizes the bullet pierced him too.

Arthur bolts upright in his bed, shaking and out of breath. He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. He looks down, his chest is clean of paint, cum, or blood and free of bullet holes.

The dream is sharp and vivid in his memory still; it fades very little as he blinks into the darkness of his bedroom.

As his heart rate returns to normal and his mind begins to try and make sense of the dream, all Arthur can do is sigh. _“Fuck.”_


	15. The Knight of Spades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Backstory Chapter: Alfred Edition! Behind the cheeky grin is the bored mind of an engineer and the broken heart of an artist.
> 
> Alternate title: Someone I Used to Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We try again~ XD
> 
> In tarot, the Knight of Swords (aka Spades) signifies a person of high intelligence and strong ambition. At best, they are focused, quick-thinking, adaptable, and observant. At worst, they are impulsive, unfeeling, reckless, or burnt-out.

Alfred sits at the jeweler’s bench he has set up in the living room of the flat where he currently resides. The small dining area has been converted into a makeshift polishing station. The Green Faerie emerald sits on the top shelf of the bench, just slightly above Alfred’s eye level. He rests his elbows on the bottom tray, turning the mounting of an 18k white gold ring over in his fingers, examining it in the light.

He has contemplated using the Green Faerie as the centerpiece of the ring, but he would have to cut a smaller piece from the stone and he is conflicted since it would destroy the integrity of the emerald. The fact that emeralds are so soft is the deciding factor. Any jeweler worth their salt would steer a client away from using an emerald in a ring meant to be worn every day.

His quest for just the right cushion-cut centerpiece stone continues. Diamonds are favored for their hardness, as are sapphires of any color. The right diamond would suit. Finding a sapphire with enough flash or the right hue might be difficult. There’s always moissanite, which has a high amount of fire, and Alfred has never been opposed to using lab-created stones in his own work, though he prefers genuine.

He wonders what sort of stone Inspector Kirkland might prefer.

The unset ring, on the other hand, has been with Alfred since he was eighteen. It is the only remaining piece from the collection his mentor had assigned him as part of his final test. For this reason, the ring torments him.

It has come to represent the death of the person he’d grown up thinking he’d become someday and for this reason, he would melt it down and make something new.

But it also represents the birth of the Thief of Spades and for this reason, he treasures it.

Yet no stone can fill it. The inexpensive cubic zirconium which had been set in it as a placeholder is long gone… and so is the normal life Alfred once knew. Most of the time, he wouldn’t want that life back. He would have always been bored, always somewhat out of place with no real friends and disconnected family, always uncomfortable with his sexuality. He'd left behind a small town and a small life.

As the Thief of Spades, he can do whatever he likes, have whatever he wants.

He can have any beautiful object in the world.

He can win the favor of rich, important people from rich, important families.

He can outsmart almost anyone who tries to catch him.

He can outrun Agent Hedevary and her team.

He can play games with Inspector Kirkland.

He can't really be close to anyone, but he'll trade emotional intimacy for freedom any day.

Alfred has learned from experience that freedom is more important than human connection and that independence negates the need for trust.

* * *

Four years ago, when he was eighteen, Alfred was an apprentice to a master jeweler. He studied metallurgy and painting at the community college and pursued his gemology certification through the GIA. He graduated high school at age sixteen, but classrooms were always boring, so for him, going to a traditional university would have been a waste of time. He spent as much time as he could with his mentor, fifty-five year old Ben Gordon.

The worst thing he had ever done is drive a little over the speed limit. Okay, a bit more than a little.

He had been helping his mentor prepare to meet with a buyer for regional high-end jewelry store, though Alfred had been even more anxious than his mentor. He had designed and cast seven wedding sets and if the buyer accepted all of them, Alfred would have passed his final test and could begin working as a full-fledged jeweler, rather than a mere apprentice. Mr. Gordon was a popular, well-known local jeweler and to have his name behind Alfred’s training would have been a great asset.

When Alfred arrived that morning, Mr. Gordon informed him that the meeting had been moved up and Alfred had missed it. He told Alfred it wouldn't have mattered anyway since the buyer did not accept any of his designs. Alfred had asked for the rings back, but Mr. Gordon said he had already melted them back down.

Mr. Gordon chastized Alfred for disgracing him and revoked his apprenticeship, throwing Alfred out of the shop in the process.

A few weeks later, Alfred had seen his designs on display in the jewelry store window, under Mr. Gordon's name. That wasn't surprising given that Alfred was an apprentice and could not have sold them under his name, but it had infuriated Alfred to see that Mr. Gordon ruined his career for seemingly no reason. He had confronted Mr. Gordon who told him that the buyer loved Alfred's designs, had praised them over his own, had said that his designs had been growing stale. Alfred realized then that Ben Gordon had ruined his life out of spite and jealousy and Alfred's own sense of justice would not let him get away with it.

By the time he decided the only thing to do was to steal the designs back, only three were left. Alfred could have found out who the customers were, but the designs were wedding sets: engagement rings and matching bands, and they were meant to bring joy and symbolize promise and eternity, so he hadn't wanted to sabotage anyone’s happiness by stealing them from couples in love.

With that notion firmly fixed, he decided instead to focus on breaking into the jewelry store. The store was high end, but not so much that the security was completely over the top. One of Alfred’s secondary interests, in addition to painting, had always been technology and with a bit of googling and youtube video watching, he formulated a plan.

On the night he chose to execute said plan, there was only one ring left, the only engagement ring created without a corresponding band. It had been his favorite from the start, but it was more simple in its elegance than the others, so he had understood why it was the last one.

Everything was even easier than he had thought it would be.

When it was over, he waited nervously to see if he had gotten away with it. He didn't go outside for nearly a week. The local news barely touched on the break-in and when they interviewed Ben Gordon, he made it clear that he had no idea who might have done such a thing. With his former mentor having apparently choosen not to throw suspicion on him, no one looked at a perfectly average, law-abiding citizen like Alfred.

After Alfred was certain he really wasn't going to get caught, he told only one person: his friend from his watercolor class, Lilli. She was really sweet and very talented and the only person at the community college whom he’d known since before graduating high school. He was giddy and breathless as he recounted the tale. Her eyes went wide, but she seemed more impressed than anything.

“That’s so brave of you, Alfred,” she had said. “It was so awful of Gordon to do that to you and I’m glad you got it back, but what are you going to do now? He’s definitely not going to help you get another apprenticeship at this point.”

Alfred looked at the ring held in his fingers. “I—I don’t know.”

A few months later, Alfred had completed his gemology certification and gotten a job at a local locksmith. His skills with metallurgy had him vastly overqualified for the menial demands of the position, but he learned a great deal about locks, safes, and security systems.

One night, Lilli knocked on the door. With her was a sobbing girl, about their same age.

“Hey, Lilli, what’s up?”

“Alfred, this is my friend Monica. A gallery offered to display and sell her work, but she asked them specifically not to sell one painting and they did. The client hasn’t taken possession yet and it’s still in the gallery, but she can’t afford to buy it back.”

Alfred had looked at his friend skeptically. “Okay, that sucks, but what do you want me to do about, Lil?” he had asked pointedly.

“Please, Alfred,” Monica said, catching her breath in hiccuped sobs. “That painting is inspired by my family, it’s really personal. They promised they wouldn’t sell it and then they did.”

A strange, yet now familiar thrill had rushed through Alfred’s fingertips at the implications. The gears in his mind came whirring to life with unparalleled speed, already thinking of what kind of security a local art gallery might have. He’d learned a lot about things like that in his research for the jewelry store. His thoughts moved seamlessly over contingencies he had not even been certain existed yet. Even the prospect of it posed a challenge. A real challenge. “You want me to get it back?”

“Y-yes,” Monica had said timidly. “Lilli told me about the ring. I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone. I can’t really pay you, so I’ll understand if you say no, but—”

Alfred had smiled with a devious glint in his eyes. His heart raced as it began to comprehend the new purpose his brain was setting out for it. His head conjured images of blueprints, specs, gadgets and locks. His heart had wrapped itself in tales of Robin Hood. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

 Alfred turns the ring over and over in his fingers.

Four years have passed. He’s not Robin Hood. He can be, for the right price, which is often nothing more than the thrill of the job. Sometimes he steals things for the merely for the chase, the degree of difficulty of the theft itself. He often returns those items.

Everyone has stolen something from someone. Many of the things he takes have already been stolen at one point or another. Someone's blood stains every beautiful thing in the world.

His head still conjures images of plans and contingencies, of meticulous execution and perfect escape. His heart spins philosophies of anti-imperialism and a world where everyone realizes that no one truly owns anything—all structured around a compulsive love of beauty.

Alfred reclines comfortably in his chair, staring at the ring. This is who he has become: a person his eighteen year old self hadn't even known could exist in that moment--someone truly free.

He would never give this ring to anyone, it’s probably cursed now, but he would like to make a different ring for someone. Someday.

Alfred glances over at the bench where the Green Faerie glitters in the lamp light.

He makes a note to find out what sort of stone Inspector Kirkland might prefer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for giving me another shot at this episode, guys! Sorry about the "glitch" XD


	16. Strikingly Unsubtle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude; Arthur gets a phone call from Gilbert and a wake-up call from his subconscious... he only answers the call from Gilbert though. His subconscious will have to leave a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to do something a little sillier since last chapter was kinda heavy

“What is it, Gilbert?” Arthur answers his phone when that stupid picture from someone’s Christmas party of the two inebriated friends/colleagues pops up on his phone. Arthur is on his way to what he functionally presumes to be the CIA’s London headquarters since he hasn’t asked and he doubts anyone would tell him. He rubs his hand over his face. He hadn’t been able to get anymore sleep after his dream and now feels ill-equipped to deal with the potential wrath of Agent Hedevary. Hearing the voice of his friend, Arthur suddenly wishes he were headed to New Scotland Yard as usual, instead. “Is there a question about one of the cases I left you?”

“Well, ah, sort of, mate. I actually think it might be to do with the case you’re on now,” Gilbert answers.

“What do you mean?”

“We got this weird anonymous call early this morning over concern of possible drug possession and date rape. We found drugs in the suspect’s flat and when brought him in, we found writing all over his body. We can’t seem to figure out how to get it off and forensics has yet to identify it.”

“What does that have to do with the Thie—with my case?” Arthur replies.

“You see,” Gilbert starts in that way he does when he knows he’s about to give Arthur information he won’t like, “in addition to the writing, he’s got a spade drawn on his stomach.”

“I’m on my way,” Arthur says, turning on heel and sending a quick text to Elizaveta. She’s likely already livid with him, so there can’t be more harm done by merely missing a morning briefing. He lies and tells her the Yard needs his help with a case he’d been working on before she requisitioned him. He knows that, on paper, the correct thing to do would be to clue her in that it could be to do with Alfred, but it doesn’t  _feel_  like the right thing, even if it would probably spare him any scolding if he could give her any leads on the Thief of Spades.

Of course, the mention of date rape gives Arthur a good idea of who the suspect is and it’s probably better if Elizaveta and the rest of the team don’t learn about Arthur getting drunk and then roofied by some stranger in a bar. He cares less that Gilbert is going to find out. The silver-haired sergeant likely won’t even be surprised, given his knowledge of Arthur’s history and habits.

Arthur’s mind shifts focus back to the dream, which he still recalls in sharp detail. How can he forget Alfred’s plea for help before he died in Arthur’s arms—before Elizaveta’s bullet pierced Arthur too? The symbolic meaning is strikingly unsubtle, but it revives that protective instinct Arthur felt toward Alfred before. Arthur doubts the man in Gilbert’s custody will lead to the capture of the Thief of Spades, but it could and that’s enough to convince Arthur to conceal it from the CIA. As well as the fact that, for some reason he cannot place, Arthur is emphatically reluctant to expose Alfred’s apparent heroism to the scrutiny of the task force dedicated to bringing his career as a thief to an end.

From there, the thought that not only did Alfred rescue Arthur, but that he tracked the man down later to exact revenge, stirs flickers of surprise and lightness in Arthur’s chest and quickens his pace toward the Yard. Nearly everyone involved in this case has said that Arthur himself is special and that the Thief of Spades clearly thinks so too. Arthur has been more skeptical of this claim, but thinking about the man who had drugged him sitting in lock up because Alfred had seen fit to put him there… it’s the first time he actually understands why they’ve been saying it.

And he cannot figure out why it pleases him so much.

It must only be the revelation that Alfred is far more noble than anyone has led Arthur to believe.

Upon reaching the Yard, Gilbert greets Arthur with a quick hug and clap on the back. “It’s good to see you, Arthur.”

The relief of familiarity of a good friend washes over Arthur and he’s suddenly grounded to the Earth again, suddenly a UK citizen again, suddenly a Londoner again, suddenly a detective with the Metro Police services—suddenly not in the strange world of international criminals and foreign intelligence agencies. He breathes it in like surfacing from a deep dive into the ocean. Everything seems much more manageable now. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Gil,” he starts with a cheeky grin, “But it’s fantastically good to see you too.”

“The Americans are that bad, huh?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “There’s a frog on the team; that should say enough.”

“Bloody hell,” Gilbert curses sympathetically. He heads toward the interrogation room where the suspect has been sat for the past few hours since coming back from forensics.

Arthur follows, but stops short when Gilbert opens the door to the room. “Ah, Gil... wait. I’d rather not go in there just yet.”

“Oh. Okay,” Gilbert says, confused, but he leads Arthur to the observation room all the same. “What’s going on?” he asks after the door is shut.

Arthur looks through the glass at the man. He is, indeed, the same man whom had been buying Arthur drinks that night. The words “Caution: date rapist” stained all over him, including his face. “The Thief of Spades... went after this man because,” he pauses. It’s only Gilbert, but it’s still hard to admit. “Because he drugged me with rohypnol.”

“Drugged  _you_?” Gilbert asks incredulously.

“I was at the pub, that man sitting in there was chatting me up and then someone bought a round of drinks for everyone, making a big commotion, and more importantly, a distraction and then I woke up, tied to a chair in the company of the Thief of Spades.” He strategically leaves out the details about being half naked and covered in paint.

“Saved your dumb, easy arse then, it looks like. This bloke’s got enough illicit substances in his apartment to send him up for the next fifteen years. It’ll be worse if we can find anyone else he’s sexually assaulted or tried to... I’m guessing you’re not going to want to be a witness.”

Arthur nods. “If only so the agents don’t find out.” He gazes at the man on the other side of the glass. There’s nothing remarkable about him, he’s not particularly handsome and if Arthur recalls correctly, he hadn’t even been particularly charming, but then… maybe it was just that Arthur had been particularly lonely and particularly lost. Standing next to Gilbert, he no longer feels so adrift and the further he chases the Thief of Spades, the less lonely he seems to find himself.

“Right, that’s probably for the best.” Gilbert says with a nod and then holds up a small, folded piece of paper between two fingers. “It’s also probably for the best they don’t find out about this.”

Arthur glares at him in jest and then snatches the note. One of the outside folds has “Inspector Kirkland” written on it in an unfamiliar handwriting, but then again, Alfred is a forger. “Where did you find this?”

Gilbert nods toward the glass. “His pocket.”

“Did you read it?” Arthur asks accusingly.

“‘Course I did. Who do you think I am?”

Arthur shakes his head and opens the note.

 _Inspector,_  
_There is some honor among thieves._  
 _Try to keep yourself out of trouble that isn’t me._  
 _xoxo_  
♠︎

“So you already knew when you called me then,” Arthur says flatly.

“Well I told you I think the kid’s got it bad for you awhile ago.”

The urge to smack Gilbert upside the head and tell him that’s not what he meant is so comfortably familiar that Arthur is able to resist acting on it and it is quickly subsumed by the odd idea that Alfred is somehow trying to help him.

Arthur decides he’ll just have to return the favor.


	17. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred hatches a plan and Arthur makes a decision. Abigail frets internally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're both too tsundere to function.

Nearly a week has passed since Alfred has last seen Inspector Kirkland and his fingertips, which are not in the habit of denying him the beautiful things he wants, are getting a little… twitchy.

His heavily secured London flat is full of deliciously sparkling gems, fine jewelry, and exquisite art, some real and some forgeries, but only a well-trained eye could ever tell the difference, and yet they suddenly hold little fascination for the infamous Thief of Spades.

His jeweler’s bench is unusually tidy and has become more of a shrine to the Green Faerie than anything else.

Any available flat surface that isn’t his bed is scattered with open magazines, brochures, and pamphlets from various museums and art galleries all over the United Kingdom, as well as a few from France, Germany, and Belgium, one from Spain, and one from Denmark. Alfred’s lookbooks and wishlists, as it were. Yet none of their glossy pages with high resolution photos of more beautiful things Alfred feels confident he could easily acquire seem trivial.

Certainly, wherever he goes, Agent Hedevary and her little squad will follow, but would Inspector Kirkland? That is the real question and Alfred doesn’t  _want_  any of the things he could steal. Not right now. He only wants one thing right now, but he’s also certain that if he simply asked for it, he would be denied and Alfred is not in the habit of being denied anything by anyone.

Of course, if he doesn’t have to be rejected, why should he risk it? Not when he has friends who can help him set up a little game for his own amusement.

Snatching up his phone, he grins wildly to himself as he sends a quick, encrypted message to his friend Kiku in Japan.

* * *

Surprisingly, Elizaveta hadn’t been at all cross with Arthur when he’d returned from meeting with Gilbert at the Yard. In the intervening week, the team did manage to wrap up the case involving Alfred’s copied painting, only to find out that indeed Alfred had been right, though Arthur did not tell anyone about their conversation.

Elizaveta had even been forced to admit that it was Alfred’s good will which had been violated and the contract regarding the commission of the copy was broken by the person who had done the commissioning. Arthur had half-expected Elizaveta to be furious about this, but instead she seemed very unsurprised, if rather perturbed. Ludwig had explained to Arthur that such situations with the Thief of Spades were not common, but not rare either. Yao had expressed frustration in tandem with Elizaveta over Jones’ haphazard and deliberately reckless tightrope walk through the grey areas of legality.

Francis, on the other hand, had continued to insist that Alfred would never be a convincing forger anyway and went on to cheekily state that his best work to date had been his “amateurish” homage to the impressionists:  _Le Corps d’Artur._

Her team seems to move in its own rhythm and Arthur finds himself missing the similar beat he’d had with his own colleagues within the Metro Police. He knows he could catch the Alfred again and he knows that’s the only reason why he’s here, but in the context of Elizaveta’s team, he really is only bait and Arthur finds he has no interest in that role and significantly less interest in arresting the Thief of Spades than he did at the start… though his dreams seem to find plenty of other reasons to put Alfred Jones in handcuffs.

So, at the end of that week’s Wednesday, Arthur hangs back a moment and approaches Elizaveta. “Agent Hedevary,” he says. “I think that after tomorrow, I’ll go back to my real job.”

Elizaveta raises her eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Arthur answers. “I think I can do more good there than here and that’s what I want. If you need to use me as bait, please call Chief Inspector Carter with at least twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“You think that’s all you are around here?”

“Yes, but it is not merely that. I’m not a CIA agent, I’m not an interpol agent, I’m not an expert on anything in particular, and I’m certainly not an expert on the Thief of Spades. Your only reason for bringing me onto your team seems to have been his apparent fascination with me which has allowed me to capture him twice and while I honestly can respect that reason as an investigator, I feel I have better uses for my own time.”

Elizaveta smiles wryly and shakes her head. “I suppose you’re right. I can respect that about you, Arthur. I hope you understand that we will have to keep an eye on you as he may still target you.”

Arthur snorts, not because he doubts that Alfred will target him further, but more because he doubts that “target” is really the right word. It doesn’t mean that he knows what the right word  _is_ , however.

“Would you still be willing to help out should the occasion arise?” she asks hopefully.

Arthur sighs at that. “I suppose, but I reserve the right to refuse.”

“That’s fair. Very well, I’ll call your Chief and we’ll have you back at Scotland Yard on Friday, but you’re always more than welcome to come back.”

Arthur places his shoulder holster and gun on the table, inhaling deeply. “Thank you, Agent Hedevary. It has been a privilege.”

“Likewise, Inspector Kirkland.”

At home, Arthur kisses his mother’s temple, pours himself a cup of tea and sits next to her at the kitchen table. “I’m going back to my real job,” he informs her, “I quit the bloody CIA.”

Abigail looks up from the contents of her sewing basket, which are spread out across the table in front of her, the basket in her lap. “Did you?” she says mildly. “How do you feel now?”

Arthur sighs and takes a sip of tea. He feels better. Without the shoulder holster, he feels free and without the gun, he feels lighter. Excitement and joy flow through him at the thought of returning to New Scotland Yard, returning to Gilbert and the rest of his colleagues, returning to the crappy coffee machine, returning to the comparatively mundane, but still challenging cases to which he is accustomed. It’s all underscored by a strange twinge of guilt at the thought that he has left Alfred defenseless against Agent Hedevary and her team, but of course it’s unfounded. Alfred has gotten himself into and out of plenty of trouble for a few years now with nearly no intervention from Arthur. “Brilliant,” he answers honestly. “You were right, I want to help people. Catching an international thief who steals from the rich to sell to the rich… well it’s not exactly a noble pursuit, is it?”

Abigail watches emotions flicker across her son’s face and smiles at his answer. Her youngest son has always been so stubborn, but so secure in his convictions, even when he was a boy. She calmly and disinterestedly places and rearranges some bobbins in her sewing basket. “And what about Alfred?”

Arthur looks down at his teacup and frowns. He really had thought Alfred might need his help, given that Elizaveta is well-intentioned, but clearly has no qualms about bringing Alfred in on charges of any crime, regardless of whether he actually did it or not. Arthur then reminds himself that not only did Alfred save him from being assaulted, but he even brought the would-be assailant to justice. Arthur himself had been vulnerable and Alfred had acted the hero. He looks up at the wall instead of his mother. “What about him? He can handle himself. Clearly. Doesn’t need the likes of me to slip right out of trouble.”

Abigail nods. She then grins, reaches over, and pinches Arthur’s cheek. She sees right through him and always has. He’s just like her—gripping the delusion of a shy, cautious heart… even when it has already flung itself full force at its next target, always quite without permission.

Arthur swats her hand away. “Oi. Mum,” he grouses, rubbing his cheek.

Abigail gazes softly at him. Being the youngest of four brothers, Arthur had been taught very quickly that showing emotion meant showing weakness and she knows he’s never fully learnt it isn’t true and so his own feelings often confuse him. As his mother, Abigail knows he’ll probably have to learn the hard way how to cope with the profound depths of his own emotional range, but for now… perhaps for now she can put him on solid ground.

She continues organizing her basket. “You’re very right, love. And, you know, just because he helped you out doesn’t mean that he’s not still a criminal. Saving your careless arse doesn’t change who he is.” She looks down to hide her sly smile.

Arthur considers this for a moment. That must be it. He feels indebted to Alfred, but why should he? They’re square, are they not? Alfred helped him, certainly, but Arthur kept him out of prison by revealing the truth of the last case to the Elizaveta. Yes. So they are even. Any residual twinges or pangs of guilt or even longing will soon dissipate and Arthur need not remember the Thief of Spades with rose-colored glasses or any strange and wholly unnecessary attachment. “Yes, that’s true.”

There. Solid ground. “Speaking of your carelessness, you saw Gilbert after that happened. Did he find out who the man was?”

“Ah, well. Sort of. Apparently, Alf—Jones all but gift-wrapped him for the Yard. I think they’re still unable to remove whatever stain he used on the bastard’s skin.”

“Stain?”

Arthur stands up and places his nearly-full tea cup by the sink, laughing although he doesn’t know why. The man’s crimes are not funny and after putting out a request for information, several victims have come forward, yet he has to laugh off what Alfred did or else it all seems… too personal. “Yes, oddest thing, really. He used some kind of liquid to write ‘caution: date rapist’ all over the suspect’s face and torso.” He kisses his mother’s cheek. “I’m off to bed then. Tomorrow is my last day as a  _spy_ after all.”

“Alright, Artie. Good night.” Abigail stops organizing and sits pensively for a moment, looking over at the chair where the Alfred Jones, the Thief of Spades, had sat at her kitchen table. She wonders if the poor, misguided lad has as much trouble with his emotions as her Arthur.


	18. Can't Run Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Hedevary is a spy, not an officer of the law and we’d all do well to remember that. Arthur’s worldview continues shifting without his realizing it and Alfred’s world starts to cave-in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no~ we’re starting to develop some semblance of a plot. Heck.
> 
> _Think about what you believe in now, am I someone you cannot live without?_   
> -The Chainsmokers & Bebe Rexha “Call You Mine”

The security guard in the well-tailored navy suit is too distracted by the haphazard sway of shapely legs beneath the short, swishing skirt of a shimmery red dress to notice that the giggling person wearing said dress with those strappy black stilettos is not exactly who they seem to be or as drunk as they seem to be… or the less than honorable intentions shifting behind bright blue eyes.

When the Thief of Spades collapses into the guard’s chest with an exaggerated fit of giggles and cooing, it’s already too late.

Flustered, the guard tries to steady the seemingly inebriated young “lady” in his arms. “Uh… Miss? You’re not supposed to be here. Let me get one of the valets to assist you.” There’s no response, barely even breathing. “Miss?” Becoming alarmed, the guard pulls his radio closer to his mouth to call for help.

The Thief of Spades laughs in a high pitched voice. “I’m, like, so sorry,” he says in a ditzy accent. “But does this smell like chloroform to you?” He smothers the guard’s nose with a cloth and uses his surprise to slip a very potent sleeping pill into his mouth. The man goes limp and drops to the floor with a thud. The Thief of Spades chuckles darkly. “That line never gets old.” He kneels down, switches off the guard’s radio and handcuffs his hands behind his back. “But that stuff’s way less a kick to the head than chloroform, so you’re welcome,” he continues as he rummages through the guard’s pockets and relieves of his keycards.

Using the keycards, the Thief of Spades gains access to the heavily secured door at the end of the hallway until only the reinforced titanium door of the vault stands between him and his prize. The vault is situated in the depths of a grand hotel and due to the hotel management’s habit of storing illicit items for extremely wealthy guests, all of the cameras surrounding the vault are completely fake.

It is currently housing a staggering amount of the highest quality Mikimoto pearls which are to be displayed at the charity silent auction that many guests of the hotel are there to attend.

The Thief of Spades is only after one particular piece: an expertly knotted strand of flawlessly silver-white; perfectly spherical pearls of the same, precise size with an intricately-cast, antique, 18k white gold clasp studded with three princess-cut blue sapphires. It’s the most valuable, most exquisite piece in the collection, of course.

But it’s all just a bit too easy. The thief had expected there to be more guards and even brushes his fingers against the knife strapped to the inside of one of his thighs just to make sure it’s still there.

He taps on the vault door a few times, ear pressed carefully to the cool metal. He inspects the computerized keypad and pulls a small USB drive from the same holster as the knife which will override whatever the programmed passcode is. He looks back at the door which had closed behind him before entering this room. It’s sealed, which he hadn’t anticipated.

A quick glance at the ceiling confirms his fears. If the keypad receives the wrong code even once, all of the oxygen will be sucked from the room, which is already quite small and not well ventilated. What the thief doesn’t know is what will happen if the keypad is overridden. It is possible he will enter the room-sized vault with no incident, but it is also possible that the vault door will open and the deoxygenation chamber will still activate.

The vault’s only entrance is its only exit and if the chamber is activated, the Thief of Spades doubts very seriously that the cards he took from the guard will let him back out.

He presses his lips to the USB drive. “Don’t let me down, Kiku,” he murmurs and then takes a deep breath. Holding it, he inserts the USB drive. The vault door opens. The deoxygenation chamber does not activate. No alarms sound. The Thief of Spades grins and pulls the drive from the keypad. “Sweet,” he whispers in triumph as he steps into the vault.

Afterwards, he locates the necklace and slips it into a pouch strapped to the inside of his thigh, across from the knife. He exits the way he entered with not so much as a blip on anyone’s radar.

To really sell it, he kneels beside the guard, making sure to turn his radio back on, return his keycards, and place the handcuffs back in their holster. The man begins to wake and the thief feigns concern. “Are you alright, sir?” he asks, blinking innocent baby-blues at him.

The guard sits up, blinks back, rubs his hand over his face and tries to swallow to remedy his dry mouth. He appraises the person before him briefly, opens his mouth and then shuts it, clearly not wanting to violate political correctness and company policy. He stands up, steadying himself against the wall. “You—you’re not supposed to be back here,” he says clumsily.

“I’m sorry,” the thief says. “I got lost.” He flutters his lashes, almost daring the guard to accuse him or say anything against him.

The guard looks around, sees nothing has changed and all seems well. “I’ll have a valet come and get you.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

In hindsight, Arthur should have known it would never be that easy to quit Elizaveta’s team.

He strides in on Thursday, eager for his last day to come and go, to be de-briefed by the CIA, give them back the gun and go home. He’s even more eager to return to New Scotland Yard on Friday. His good mood is almost instantly deflated when he walks into the room and Ludwig quickly informs him of new information:

A charity auction featuring expensive pearl jewelry. A grand, luxury hotel. And whispers that the Thief of Spades has his eyes on one particular item.

“How convenient,” Arthur says when he hears the news.

“The auction and party have been planned for months,” Elizaveta replies. “But the items up for auction were only announced on Tuesday and we only got word that Jones has his eyes on one of the items late last night.”

Arthur can’t help but feel like Alfred, or perhaps simply the entire Universe, is conspiring against him.

The auction and concurrent ball are to take place on Saturday. Arthur wants nothing to do with it, but Elizaveta lures him in with the idea that they could apprehend Alfred this time for good; she and her team would never have to bother Arthur again. For a split second, Arthur is absolutely certain he doesn’t want any of that. He’s certain he doesn’t want Alfred to be caught, he’s certain he doesn’t want the chase to end.

But a deep breath cures him of it… or rather, suppresses it and that’s how he finds himself at a tailor getting fitted for a tuxedo. It’s how he finds himself picking up the tuxedo on Friday and it’s how he finds himself spending all of Saturday inspecting the hotel.

Elizaveta and her team, including Arthur,  most of the day combing through information on the staff as well as the guests. Yao and Ludwig inspect the vault of the hotel itself and Francis walks the hotel security through the routes he himself might take, if he were going to break into the place, and letting them know anything he knows about Alfred’s habits.

Curiously, at various points, Arthur wants to shut him up, wants to tell him to stop giving Alfred away, but he keeps himself silent. It’s foolish. If they catch Alfred tonight, he’ll never have to deal with any of this ever again.

Arthur ignores the fact that he has to constantly remind himself that it’s a good thing.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“He’s here,” Ludwig alerts everyone over the radio. “He’s wearing a red, backless dress and a diamond necklace.”

“He’s what!?” Arthur hisses back.

Francis’ mirthful voice answers, “He does this sometimes. I suppose I can appreciate his flair for theatrics.”

“It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing,” Elizaveta replies sternly, “at least this way we know it’s him.”

“No one moves until he does,” Yao reminds them, mostly reminds Elizaveta. “With what we know right now, he is still just another invited guest.”

Though he can’t see or hear her, Arthur laughs as he imagines Elizaveta fuming. 

“Arthur,” her voice comes in again, “He’s on the dance floor. Go down there and distract him. Don’t let him out of your sight. Get him to confess something.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow, but still begins heading in the direction of the dance floor. “Distract him how?”

There’s a pause before she responds dryly, “How do you think, Inspector?”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

Another pause and then Francis, actively laughing, cheekily adds, “It is a ball, mon ami. You are not wearing that tuxedo for your health. Surely, even a common ros bif policeman knows how to dance.”

_Common?_  Arthur thinks as he slips into the sea of couples dancing, but he says nothing more over the radio.

Alfred is easy enough to spot, by the spectacular shade of red of his silk dress more than anything else. Pressed up against his current dance partner, it’s difficult to tell anything about his gender, so he hardly looks out of place in that regard. The flowing skirt even accentuates the ever so slight curve of his hips and the slender lines of his legs. Butterflies, which are not unfamiliar at this point, flit back and forth in Arthur’s stomach and to get control of himself, he concentrates on detaching from the situation and merely observes for a moment.

Alfred is clearly a more competent dancer than his partner, who is a significantly older man, and is trying to hide it. His black open-toed shoes have only a very modest heel—he’s not aiming for more height, clearly—but it’s enough to do lovely things for his calves.

His partner points subtly back at Arthur with a conspiratorial grin, causing Alfred to turn his head slightly and wink. At this, Arthur raises his eyebrow and now, feeling as though he has been called out, been challenged, he strides over to the pair.

He taps Alfred’s partner insistently on the shoulder. “May I cut in?” The man smiles politely and nods, stepping away and allowing Arthur to take his place.

Alfred’s brain fills with glee as he is pulled unceremoniously into the arms of his favorite detective, who looks  _gorgeous_  in his tuxedo. Just to see Arthur dressed up like that would have made this whole endeavor worth it, but to dance with him as well is the delectable icing on the proverbial cake. “ _Oh no_ , you found me, Inspector Kirkland. Such a keen eye you have. What gave me away?”

Arthur rolls his eyes as he leads Alfred along in time with a flowing waltz, although he could be doing so a little more gently. Alfred doesn’t deserve it after he’s dragged Arthur into what feels increasingly like absurdist theatre. “You’re the only man here wearing a red silk cocktail dress, black kitten heels, and a diamond wreath around your neck. I could only have missed you had I been wearing a blindfold.”

“I’m really rather stunning, huh?” Alfred retorts mildly, even as Arthur all but manhandles him through the dance. He likes it. Arthur being rough with him sends chills up his spine.

“You’re an ‘alleged’ thief. Aren’t you supposed to be stealthy and unnoticed?” Arthur asks flatly.

Alfred steps closer, forcing Arthur to shift his hand from Alfred’s waist to the curve of his lower back. He plucks Arthur’s earpiece out and drops it to the floor, crushing it with his heel. Alfred smirks as he leans in and murmurs, “Only if I don’t want you to notice me.”

Their next turn has Arthur’s heel crunching over the shattered bits of his earpiece, but with Alfred’s proximity throttling his higher reasoning functions, he pays it no mind. Arthur’s off-the-clock brain is much more interested in the feel of Alfred’s toned, lithe body so close to his and the heat of Alfred’s skin under Arthur’s hand beneath his shoulder blades. This part of his brain is acutely aware of how effortless Alfred’s steps are and how easily he allows Arthur to lead him.

Arthur’s work brain cuts in to sternly remind Arthur that he is on the clock and he’d better keep his wits up because not only is Alfred a criminal, but Arthur has only learned to dance in service of his two eldest brothers’ respective weddings and Alfred is better than him as well. The further Arthur forces himself into detective-mode, the more his frustration over not being allowed to simply enjoy having Alfred in his arms seeps out into his rough handling of the dance.

Alfred grins as Inspector Kirkland spins him out and then back, only to grip his waist more tightly. He’s starting to think the detective might actually dip him. The steady hand on his spine thrills him like minute electric shocks. Alfred’s fingers nearly vibrate with the need to smooth the firm severity from the Inspector’s brow and the smile expressing Alfred’s own delight could quite easily transform Arthur’s resolute frown given enough contact.

Uncertainty, however, has been pushing Alfred into the habit of denying himself the beautiful things he wants… despite his best efforts.

The expressions bursting across Alfred’s face are indecipherable and slightly unnerving, so Arthur glances at the sparkling necklace around Alfred’s neck to avoid looking at the thief directly. He snorts to cover up his surprise. “Are you actually wearing that sixty-two carat wreath from the first time I caught you?” He leans just a little closer, pure to examine the diamonds, of course. “Bloody hell,  _you are_.”

Alfred positively preens, tilting his head slightly to the side and cheekily demuring his gaze. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Inspector, but if that really were the case, it’d be kinda charmingly sentimental of me, don’t you think?”

Arthur blushes and tries to cover it up by rolling his eyes, when that doesn’t work, he spins Alfred out again.

Alfred laughs lightly. “You’re a really good dancer. Do they teach you how at the Detective Academy?”

Arthur shakes his head and chuckles mirthlessly. “Oi. I don’t need you to stroke my ego.” The second he says it, he regrets the phrasing. “A-anyone can easily see I am quite outmatched.” The way Alfred’s face lights up actually takes Arthur aback.

“Aren’t you smooth, Inspector?” Alfred retorts, just a little bit condescendingly.

Arthur smirks. “I suppose not,” he says, leading Alfred to fall back into very low dip, easily holding him suspended over the ballroom floor. Only Arthur hadn’t thought it all the way through because now his lips are dangerously close to Alfred’s neck. He quickly tugs Alfred back up and tries not to feel gratified by the starry-eyed dizzy expression on the thief’s face.

“Wow,” Alfred breathes as the world rushes back into an upright position. “I—”

The song changes, something slower and easier to breathe through and Alfred pretends to forget what he was going to say, namely anything to coax Inspector Kirkland into doing that again. He changes the subject instead. “I was really upset when I found out you’re quitting.”

Arthur’s grip on Alfred’s hand tightens out of reflex. “How do you know about that?” He sighs. “Never mind. Between you and Agent Hedevary, my sanity is hanging by a thread. I want to go back to real police work. You’ll forgive me if chasing after you in vain for the next several years is an unappealing prospect,” he snaps, not intending it for to sound as cruel as it does.

Alfred hides the sting of it behind a sultry smirk. “Don’t have the stamina to keep up with me, Inspector?”

Arthur huffs. “Rather, I don’t have the patience.”

The music stops and everyone, including Arthur, turns to look at the stage. The MC appears in front of the band, holding a microphone. He taps it to test it and it lets out a high pitched squeal. There’s a collective wince from the attendees. “Ladies and gentleman, the silent auction will be opening a little later than planned, so please continue to enjoy yourselves dancing and do take advantage of the complimentary champagne.”

The band begins again, but is joined by whispering and speculative conversation from everyone at the party.

Out of habit, Arthur listens for any chatter in his earpiece before he remembers that it got crushed and when he turns back to Alfred, the thief is gone. Arthur reaches for his phone in his pocket, only to pull out a small piece of paper as well; another note.

_Inspector,_  
 _If you have to quit, I understand._  
 _I hope you don’t, though._  
 _Whatever happens after tonight, just know_  
 _I'm grateful for your dedication to the truth._  
 _You’re an excellent detective._  
♠︎

Arthur’s phone rings then, the caller ID reads Ludwig. “What is it?” he answers.

“Come to the management offices,” Ludwig commands urgently. “Now.”

Arthur hurries as much as he can without drawing attention to himself. He clutches the note tightly and tries to remember where the offices are, but he struggles. Before now, Alfred had seemed intelligent, but almost too exceptional at reading people; too used to getting them to do what he wanted, very like a child in his view of others as mere playthings or game pieces. But there was no way Alfred had the time or means to write that note while the MC had everyone distracted. It follows, then, that he had to have written it prior. He had already decided that he would respect whatever Arthur wanted to do with his own life.

His mother had been right. At nearly every turn, Alfred has been good and honorable and... caring toward Arthur. That’s to say nothing of how beautiful and fascinating Alfred is and suddenly Arthur finds himself tripping into a door and also into the undeniable realization that while he still doesn’t want to be tied to Elizaveta’s team, he also doesn’t want to stop chasing the Thief of Spades.

He shakes himself a bit and bursts into the corridor and into the office, where he finds Alfred handcuffed to a chair and Elizaveta’s team and hotel management all watching a large monitor with an active video call on screen. The hotel’s assistant manager stands holding a glistening pearl necklace and a black pouch is looped around Alfred’s ankle.

“So you see,” the man on the monitor says with a thick Japanese accent, “we hired Mr. Jones to test the security of the hotel and we have found it lacking. Our contract with the hotel management states our right for doing this. Not only this, but Mr. Jones has reported to us that there are illicit items stored often in the vault. We felt this information is relevant to you and that you will release Mr. Jones please.”

“Thank you, Mr. Honda,” Elizaveta replies. “We’ll certainly take that into consideration.” She presses a button on a remote and disconnects the call.

“What happened?” Arthur asks Ludwig.

Ludwig pinches the bridge of his nose. “They found the pearl necklace in the pouch, strapped to Jones’ leg. A guard confessed to seeing Jones on Tuesday, yet it seems that the Japanese family who donated the collection are relatives of Kiku Honda. They are claiming to have hired Alfred to test the security of the hotel. As you heard, the vault was found to contain illegal weapons and other contraband. This is a mess.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. Ludwig’s explanation sounds as though it makes sense, yet Arthur’s detective brain disagrees somehow.

Elizaveta taps her foot in frustrations and then turns to the hotel manager. “Was Honda correct? Do they have the right to test your security like this?”

The hotel manager, who looks rather pale, says, “They have a right to send a representative of their company, but that is standard and is usually taken to mean a pre-arranged visit for which we are given time to prepare and the representative is certainly never allowed into the vault. They are allowed to observe via the closed circuit cameras.”

“The cameras back there aren’t even real!” Alfred protests, wriggling angrily against the cold metal cuffs. He looks at Inspector Kirkland, but he seems somewhat stunned.

“Be quiet, Jones!” Elizaveta snaps. Yao places a calming hand on her shoulder. She continues addressing the hotel manager. “If you press charges against him,” she points at Alfred, “for trespassing and theft, I can make sure the British police look the other way about the contents of your vault.” She casts a quick glance at Arthur.

Arthur’s lip curls and his fist clenches around the note. He’d tell her not a chance, but she has Alfred in custody and if Arthur doesn’t make his next move carefully, it could mean disaster.

“Agent Hedevary,” Ludwig says warningly, taking a step toward her. “Think about what you are doing.”

Arthur doesn’t hear her reply. He’s too preoccupied with Alfred, with the anger on the thief’s face, with the terror in his eyes.

“You can’t do this!” Alfred shouts. Hope dwindles and he reminds himself that freedom is the most important thing and supersedes any emotion or connection to anyone else. Dependence on another person can only have an adverse effect on freedom. Inspector Kirkland cannot and should not be counted on as anything other than a beautiful thing Alfred wants.

Thieves are good liars. The Thief of Spades is world-renowned, a liar so good he can almost fool himself.

It’s better that the detective protects himself anyway.

Over the years, the Thief of Spades has conditioned himself to disconnect entirely rather than feel fear or anything else which might cloud his judgement, so he does. He mentally takes stock of all the current players and the likelihood of heightened security and he follows these lines of thinking toward an escape plan… and far away from the present moment.

“It will violate our contract with the Hondas, technically,” the hotel manager says, “but I suppose we don’t have a choice. Yes. We will cooperate.”

Elizaveta nods firmly. She yanks Alfred up, holding his bound arms behind his back and pushes him toward the exit. “Glad you stuck with us one more day, Inspector. Now you don’t even have to quit. You’re free,” she says, grinning proudly.

Arthur looks at her and then Alfred between them. Alfred’s eyes are blank, lifeless, shut down. The dress which all evening had seemed so strikingly lovely on him now seems farcical and degrading. This isn’t right. This isn’t what Arthur had thought of as justice, not only when he signed onto Elizaveta’s team, but when he’d joined the Metro Police.

The inspector watches as the CIA agent and the thief disappear down the corridor, mind whirring at lightspeed. If Alfred deserves to be arrested, it isn’t for anything that has happened tonight. Agent Hedevary is a foreign agent in the UK and Arthur doesn’t know if what she just did has broken any laws, but he does know that she violated justice this time, not the Thief of Spades.

Arthur cannot quit, not now. He has to stay on the case of the Thief of Spades and he has to help Alfred get out of this.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

Because the chase can’t end here.

Because, despite its delusions of shyness, Arthur’s heart won’t let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs away* please leave comments but don't hit me with them!
> 
> *grin*


	19. A Friend in Need Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred’s in trouble. Agent Hedevary decides she wants to be the villain of this fic. A certain CIA analyst calls a certain Japanese “real estate” mogul. Arthur paces. Abigail frets. Typical Tuesday.

Alfred had accounted for heightened security. While he has never been captured by law enforcement, except for Inspector Kirkland, he has been captured by other entities before. What he had not accounted for was the thing he fears most…

…solitary confinement.

The torture technique has only been used on him once and he will never ever forget the feeling.

They stripped him of everything but the red dress and Alfred suspects that Agent Hedevary intends that to be a psychological ploy, but it seems she still doesn’t know that Alfred’s gender and his presentation have very little to do with each other. He wears dresses because he enjoys them, not as some permutation of toxic masculinity, so leaving him in the red silk only serves to ground him and remind him of the evening he spent dancing with Inspector Kirkland.

Alfred does his best to keep track of the time, but only makes it through the first day and loses count after falling asleep. Rather than being woken by breakfast, he’s dragged from his tiny cell to an interrogation room with Agent Hedevary.

“Hello, Alfred,” she says with a sadistic grin, like a cat batting around a terrified mouse.

Yet it’s not her Alfred fears. “Agent Hedevary,” he replies coolly. Almost all of his effort is focused on hiding from her how rattled he really is from being in solitary. It must be at least twenty-four hours now, but there are no windows or clocks so he can’t be sure.

She slides a pad of paper and a pen across the table. “Confess to the one crime I know you’re guilty of and I’ll be lenient about everything else.”

Alfred doesn’t touch the pen or paper. He could do a lot of damage with either, but there’s another agent standing silently in the corner, though the gun in his exposed shoulder holster speaks loudly enough. Alfred looks skeptically at Hedevary. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alfred comprehends that she’s referring to some personal sleight she thinks he committed, but until he found out she’d been assigned to his case by way of her  _almost_  catching him at gunpoint, he hadn’t ever even heard of Elizaveta Hedevary.

He knows much more about her now, of course. Her parents immigrated to the DC area from Hungary when she was 9 years old. As a child, she was always top of her class and also excelled in martial arts—often considered too dangerous to compete with other girls, she often handily defeated the boys she sparred with as well. She graduated from Cambridge with a bachelor’s degree in psychology and from Northwestern with a master’s in criminology. She was shortly thereafter recruited by the CIA where she made a name for herself in profiling and Alfred considers it a point of pride that she has so little clue about him.

Aside from her CV, Alfred has it on good authority that Elizaveta is a “married to the job” type. At one point, she was married to a person instead, but at only thirty-five years old, she is already divorced. Alfred had sought out her ex-husband, a noted concert pianist and Austrian ex-pat named Roderich Edelstein, in hopes of gaining some damning personal information on his assigned agent. He’d done something similar more recently with Abigail Kirkland, albeit for different reasons.

It seemed, however, that Mr. Edelstein could offer no more insight into the agent’s mind than anyone else. Indeed, he had less to offer than some of her colleagues.

Alfred remembers feeling pity for the man and feeling strong empathy for Agent Hedevary.

Now, he feels he understands the woman much better, except for the cold, accusing stare she is leveling him with currently.

“Of course you know what I’m talking about, Jones!”

Alfred recognizes a losing battle when he sees one. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m invoking my right to be silent.” He thinks for a moment. Ivan had been listed as his attorney on a previous incident, so even if she won’t let Ivan in to see him, Alfred can at least get a message to him. “And my right to legal counsel.”

A twisted grin paints Agent Hedevary’s expression. “Your rights to what? What do you think this is, a police station? This is the goddamn CIA, Jones. But fine. You don’t want to talk?” She motions for the armed agent to come forward. “You can just go back to your cell and listen to whatever depraved voices babble in your head.”

Next, Alfred is hoisted up, dragged back to the tiny cell in which they’ve thrown him. The door is slammed shut and locked with him inside.

Alfred takes a deep breath and sits down onto the rickety bed with its shoddy mattress. He tries to start counting, but can’t find it in himself.

There are too many questions plaguing him—most of them surrounding Agent Hedevary and how Alfred seems to have underestimated her level of corruption and how he has no idea what she thinks he did that she’s so upset about. Alfred knows he should focus on these questions, but all he can do instead is curl his fingers around the hem of his tattered, red, silk skirt and think of the way it felt to be manhandled across the dance floor by Inspector Kirkland. He hadn’t had anything to do with Hedevary’s plan, Alfred had seen the surprise on his face.

The fact that the detective utterly froze is… disappointing, but Alfred supposes that Arthur is still rather out of his element working with the CIA and leaves it at that, rather than be disheartened or consider what it is about Arthur that makes Alfred feel so forgiving.

Alfred flops back onto the cot and falls into the memory of the detective’s embrace. His warm, heavy hand holding Alfred’s while his palm splayed across Alfred’s back, almost unbearably hot. His dancing had been simple, amateurish with little flourish, but self-assured and beautifully controlled at the same time. Inspector Kirkland could be an excellent dancer with just a little more practice.

A burn simmers in Alfred’s veins at the thought of it and staves off the cold of the cell.

With nothing else to do, Alfred indulges himself in thoughts of the detective, imagining him in the room right then.

“Fine mess this is,” the daydream-version says from a corner near the door. “Honestly, what did you think would happen?”

Alfred groans. “I thought Kiku had it handled. I didn’t know they had a bunch of other shady shit in that vault.” It’s easier to vent to an imagined Inspector Kirkland than to simply fume internally, particularly since Alfred has no idea how long Hedevary will have him in solitary. “I… I just wanted to play. With you. To see what you’d do.”

“Why?” the daydream asks, now sitting at the corner of the shabby bed.

“Ugh! Why does it matter? I already told you. I can’t resist anything I find beautiful. Call it a fatal flaw.” Alfred glares at nothing. “You probably wouldn’t even describe yourself that way. You’d say something adorably British like ‘oh, I’m only tolerably handsome’ or something.”

The fictitious inspector laughs. “Tolerably handsome? Have we suddenly been transported to the set of a period drama?”

“I can’t… I can’t get you out of my head. Obviously.” Alfred sighs. “I just wanted to know what it’d be like to dance with you.”

“Well, you certainly went through quite a lot of trouble for it. Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Because I wanted you to ask me!” Alfred answers, less than half jokingly. “And because I knew you’d say no.”

The not-really-there Arthur is now above Alfred, hands planted on either side of the thief’s head. “You really think I’d say no?” He scoffs and in the daydream, brushes Alfred’s hair out of his face. “I’ve already caught you twice and now I have the resources of the CIA at my disposal. You got yourself caught this time, Alfred, clearly I’ve been doing everything  _I_  can to make certain you haven’t been until now.”

Alfred squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head, imagining Arthur leaning down and kissing his neck. He whimpers and arches his back into the fantasy. This is the best way to stay sane in solitary confinement, but it’s also a very different sort of torture.

“Why am I here and not someone else?” Arthur asks him again. “Why me?”

It’s more or less the question Alfred hasn’t wanted to ask himself. Why is he so fixated on a detective inspector from New Scotland Yard? He imagines himself looking into Arthur’s emerald eyes. “I have to steal back whatever it is you stole from me.”

A smirk and then a kiss, a very long and deep one in Alfred’s fantasy. The imaginary Inspector Kirkland strokes his cheek. “Silly git. That would be your heart.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎

A young CIA analyst hurries through the hallways at Langley, an encrypted burner cellphone in one hand and a hastily scribbled note in the other. She clutches both tightly to herself, ostensibly to stop her above-average chest and pudgy stomach from jiggling embarrassingly as she goes because she already takes enough shit for that from her male colleagues. Never mind she used to be a field agent and she could kick all their asses.

She slows down whenever she passes anyone and tucks strands from her blond bob behind her ear in her usual manner. She keeps her head down to hide her determined blue eyes and her flushed face.

The phone has been programmed by Kiku Honda so that no one will ever hear anything said into it, but the walls themselves have ears inside Langley.

Once she’s certain she is safe, she dials the Japanese mogul, the only number the phone will call. “Mr. Honda. It’s me. They have him in some oubliette in London. Hedevary has zero plans to release him. The word is she intends to hold him indefinitely.”

“Thank you, Agent Jones,” Kiku tells her. “I will handle it.”

“Yes, sir,” Amelia replies. “I’ll alert you if I hear anything else.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Agent Hedevary suspects Arthur of colluding with Alfred, obviously. He hasn’t been officially put under house arrest, but he has not been cleared to return to work at the Yard and a CIA agent follows him wherever he goes, though they seem to think they are being stealthy and unnoticeable. Hence, Arthur has taken to pacing the house and worrying his mother, neither of which are wholly unusual, but he also hardly eats or sleeps.

It has been three days since Alfred was taken into the custody of the CIA and Arthur has not heard from Elizaveta or anyone on her team at all, so Arthur’s mind has been preoccupied with only one thing: rescuing Alfred. He has no even stopped to consider that such an undertaking would be highly illegal, not to mention could potentially cause an international incident.

“Arthur?” Abigail, holding a folded newspaper, pokes her head into his room. “How are you, dear?”

“Grand,” Arthur mutters bitterly. “Blood brilliant. I don’t know how yet, but I have to get him out. I feel like it’s my fault he’s in this mess and I don’t even know what ‘this mess’ is!”

Abigail nods sagely and hands him the paper. “Well, this says they’ve finally caught him. It credits New Scotland Yard and you specifically, with the cooperation of the hotel.”

Arthur takes the paper from her and scans it briefly. “Of course it does.” There could be some kind of clue in it, though he doubts it. At the very least he can talk to the journalist who wrote it. “I just wish I knew what he’d really been up to that night. His associate, Honda, is involved somehow, but other than that I’ve got no idea.” He falls into his desk chair and slumps. “And I have no way to contact Honda. What the hell am I doing, Mum? Why am I even thinking about this?”

Abigail bites the inside of her cheek to hold back her droll smile. She pats her son on his shoulder. “I’m quite certain my opinion on that will be of no interest to you at all,” she says and then kisses his forehead. “But I’m certain it will all work out.”

Arthur regards her searchingly—green eyes reading green eyes—and sighs. “You’re probably right.”

He lets her statement go. He doesn’t have time for why’s right now. The only questions that matter are how’s… namely… how in the hell is an upstanding Detective Inspector from the Metro Police Service supposed to locate and then free a wanted thief from the grasp of the CIA?


	20. A Japanese Billionaire and a British Detective Walk Into a Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred loses hope. Arthur and Kiku strike a deal. Ivan thinks everyone is an idiot.

Alfred no longer fantasizes about Inspector Kirkland. All of his energy and considerable willpower are devoted to putting on a good front for Agent Hedevary. Though he has almost no human contact except for her and very little of it at that, so far, she seems to believe she hasn’t broken him yet.

Otherwise, like his beautiful dress, the threads of Alfred’s sanity are fraying.

He still has no idea what she holds against him and she gives almost nothing away. Alfred’s only solace now is that Kiku knows who has him and his friend will find a way to get him out. This is the only hope he has.

His daily meal gets shoved through the tiny slot in the door and Alfred goes over to it slowly. He eats it slowly. His meals consist of an unopened bottle of water, boiled vegetables, and a protein bar that resembles sand and glue in every conceivable way. He always eats the vegetables first and saves the water and protein bar for as long as possible, though he did find out that if he hoards them for longer than probably two or three hours, they will be taken from him.

Alfred contemplates the small opening in the door and how shockingly unprepared he’d been for prison, or rather, being held in solitary confinement by government authority as opposed to a fellow criminal like before. Previously, he was in solitary, yes, but he had been fed well.

Confronted with his own hubris, something he’d been so careful to control, while also being so out of his depth, Alfred begins to give into despair.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Mr. Honda?” Ivan asks with a wry grin as he meets Kiku at Heathrow. He bows slightly to the Japanese businessman.

“Mr. Braginski. We meet at last,” Kiku says, bowing slightly in turn to the Russian fence. “I was hoping it would not come to this, but he cannot stay in there much longer. I am certain he is being pushed to his limit already, as you know.”

“Da. And you believe Agent Jones’ information?” Ivan takes Kiku’s back, gesturing for him to follow, and leads him out to the car.

“Alfred trusts her,” Kiku says slowly. “His instincts on such things are never wrong.”

The two make an odd pair as they slide into Ivan’s car. Ivan himself is over six feet tall, as broad as a bear, and dressed in a tailored, grey, three-piece suit with a long, pale violet scarf. Kiku, on the other hand, stands no taller than five and a half feet and is dressed in a severe, black single level suit with clean cut hair, not a thread or strand out of place.

“What about the detective?” Ivan snorts derisively. “I don’t care what Alfred says, he will only get in the way.”

“Mm. Do not worry. I am here to take care of him.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Every lead Arthur has come across as to where Alfred might even be has turned up cold. He’s been going mad for the past week or so trying to find Alfred while simultaneously not being able to meaningfully leave his house. He’s discovered that he’s left alone if he goes to the store or anywhere within short walking distance, but as soon as he heads toward the Yard or something, someone will start following him again.

So a mysterious text message with the name of a pub and an address nearly at the edge of his apparent radius seems like a god-send.

The Japanese man waiting for him in the back of the pub reaches out awkwardly to shake his hand. Arthur accepts, but bows also and receives one in kind.

“Inspector,” Kiku says evenly as they take a seat at a secluded table. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Arthur sits across from him and guesses immediately that it is not, in fact, a pleasure, but two can play that game. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Honda. From what I know of you, it is quite the occasion for you to leave Japan. You must be very worried for Alfred.”

Kiku’s eyes widen almost not at all, but Arthur catches it. The billionaire’s speech patterns don’t change at all, however. “He has… never been imprisoned this long before. It’s true. You are the only law enforcement officer who has ever caught him and you let him go.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow. “I did nothing of the—” he starts, but is cut short when Kiku lifts his hand.

“You let him get away, until now.”

The accusation isn’t subtle enough to escape getting under Arthur’s skin. “See here, I had no idea what Agent Hedevary was up to. And, I’ll be frank, it is not my job to let him get away. Quite the opposite. He’s a criminal.”

Kiku smirks and Arthur misses it. “Only in the loosest sense of the word.”

“In the strictest sense!” Arthur takes a deep breath. “In any case, I’ve been doing everything I can to find out where he is. I think I have a few leads. We should pool our data and—”

Kiku interrupts him again. “With respect, Mr. Kirkland. I came here to free Alfred and I do not require your assistance.”

“O-oh… alright, that’s just as well. Then why did you ask that I meet you here?”

“For a favor. I will be relocating Alfred. Britain is too dangerous for him now and he will only… resist me on this issue as long as he has hope that he can be with you.”

Arthur’s mouth falls open. “I— what?”

Kiku sighs, exasperated. “Inspector, I do not have time for your ignorance. You will disabuse him of this hope and in turn, I will repay you well. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Money. Career advancement. Freedom from the CIA?”

Arthur can’t help but stare at the Japanese business mogul in shock. It seems as though his game of chase with Alfred will end now regardless of what he does. If Honda does what he says he will do, Arthur will never see the Thief of Spades again. His mind conjures the night they danced together and how… exciting it had been, how charmingly Alfred had smiled at him, how easy it had been to lead him. Money and career advancement will come with or without Honda’s help, that much Arthur knows and he’s equally certain he’ll never really be free from the CIA now. Perhaps the game will end, but Arthur doesn’t have to surrender quietly.

“What if I refuse?” he asks.

“Then the CIA will be the least of your worries,” Kiku replies ominously. “You’ll never know peace for the rest of your life.”

Arthur’s gaze hardens as he stares Kiku down. “What if I don’t care?”

Kiku’s eyes do widen visibly this time and then his face falls into a soft smile that hides itself quickly. “What are you saying, Inspector Kirkland? That you are willing to risk the ire of the CIA and several high-powered, dangerous people and therefore your life to chase an international jewel thief? You’ll never catch him again, you know.”

“Yes,” Arthur says with less hesitation than he intended. “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do,” the words betray his attempt at a nonchalant tone.

Kiku nods. “I am very fond of Alfred. He’s an excited puppy to me, a cute young child, I suppose. I will do whatever I need to so that I can protect him. If I’m going to leave him in Britain, I will need someone to look after him. I would need to be assured that this person would not let any harm come to him and that this person would… care for him as much as I do or else I would have to make this person suffer. Am I being understood, Mr. Kirkland?”

Arthur gapes, closes his mouth, frowns, blushes bright pink, and then nods. “Yes.”

“Very good, then we have a deal.” Kiku rises from the table and collects his coat. “You will be seeing him shortly.”

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

Kiku laughs with his eyes only. “Yes. If the CIA even suspects you had something to do with his escape, they’ll never trust you again. You must stay guiltless in this. Do not worry, Inspector. Alfred is in very good hands.”

Already suspecting the answer, Arthur asks, “And whose hands are those?”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Alfred lies prone on the tattered cot, face streaked with tears that have long since dried, when the door to his cell is opened. He cannot even brace himself to be dragged off by agents again. He can no longer face Agent Hedevary with stoicism.

“Alfred. It’s me, get up.”

The voice is familiar, but not one he’s heard in the compound where he’s being kept.

“Arthur?”

“No, you idiot,” the voice resolves into a strong Russian accent as two strong arms wrap around Alfred and lift him easily. “It is your best friend, Ivan.”

“Ivan?” Alfred asks breathlessly. He clings tightly to the mobster’s body, as familiar to Alfred as his voice. “Thank fuck,” he mutters, kissing Ivan all over his face and the burying his face into the softness of the familiar scarf. “Get me the hell out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments make me work faster P:


	21. A Friend in Need - Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred recovers with some help. Arthur continues his journey up that long river in Egypt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't exactly the next chapter, but it's a necessary bit XD

_You said “Hey whatcha doin’ for the rest of your life?”_

-The Chainsmokers, “Call You Mine”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

_Alfred’s blue eyes fly open and he gasps for air, only there isn’t any. Looking around frantically, he realizes he’s caught in the deoxygenation chamber from the hotel vault, only now, through a window he can see Agent Hedevary smirking at him gleefully as he chokes to death on nothing._

Alfred’s blue eyes fly open and he screams, gasping at the same time. He breathes heavily and instinctively clutches at the arm of the person sitting next to the hospital-style bed.

“Alfred,” Ivan says steadily. “Alfred. You are safe. You are safe.” Ivan’s voice is rough, somewhat irritated. He dabs Alfred’s brow with a cool cloth, using his other hand to grip Alfred’s tightly.

Swallowing hard and wishing someone he could trust more were available to care for him instead of Ivan, Alfred nods. They are friends. They get along well. But Alfred knows better than to turn his back on someone like Ivan and he can only hope showing weakness like this doesn’t come back to haunt him later. Alfred frees his hand from Ivan’s, trying to take control of the cloth, but is forced to remember the IV that Kiku’s doctor had placed earlier.

According to Kiku, Alfred had been imprisoned by the CIA for thirteen days, yet in Alfred’s mind, it feels like it had been thirteen weeks.

Ivan hands him a cup of water, but Alfred hands it back to him. “I’m good,” he says with an attempt at a charming grin, gesturing to the IV.

Ivan’s brow furrows. “You need to drink something,” he says, holding out the cup to Alfred once more.

Alfred takes the cup and sniffs it first, laughing at the sour look on Ivan’s face. “Come on. We both know you’d have no respect for me if I didn’t.” He takes a sip and then gulps the entire thing.

They’re not in a hospital. They’re in a penthouse suite at a hotel to which Kiku has some claim or other. They’re still in London, Alfred can see that through the window. He had begged to be placed by the window. The sunlight streams in on him and he has to resist the urge to cry in relief.

“You should rest more,” Ivan says. “Think about something nice, but not the idiot detective, da?”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “I’m okay.” Ivan seems to think Inspector Kirkland betrayed Alfred, but Alfred knows that isn’t the case. If he had stepped in, Arthur would have gotten arrested the same as Alfred. If he had helped Alfred escape, he would have lost everything and Alfred could never ask that of him.

But to say he’d been disappointed when it hadn’t been Arthur who had lifted him up and carried him far from that horrible prison cell would be an understatement.

“I’m just gonna close my eyes for a bit,” Alfred says stubbornly. He indulges himself in imagining what it would have been like if Inspector Kirkland had been the one to rescue him and what it would be like to have Arthur caring for him now.

Arthur would hush him, hold his hand and stroke his cheek. He would kiss Alfred’s forehead and murmur in dulcet tones with his soft accent: “shh, there now, luv. I’ve got you.” On the other hand, Alfred isn’t so besotted as to think he could ever confess how scared he feels out loud even to Arthur, but he wouldn’t have to do it. That’s why he’s so smitten with Inspector Kirkland in the first place. Arthur is so good at seeing right through people, he would just know that Alfred had been really shaken.

Arthur would know how badly Alfred would need him to slide into bed next to him; Arthur would know how much Alfred would want him to put his weight on his body so the isolation he feels would disappear; and Arthur would know, to the Alfred’s own surprise, just how desperately Alfred desires to feel Arthur’s hands on him, caressing, wandering, soothing, exciting.

Alfred hasn’t really wanted anyone in so long, mainly out of necessity, but Inspector Kirkland slipped past all barriers and defenses with his keen emerald eyes, stern brow, smirking lips, and regal cheekbones. Alfred dozes off, still thinking of the detective.

“Bit of a glutton for punishment, you are.” the dream version asks, leaning over Alfred on all fours, as before. He buries his nose against Alfred’s neck, smearing kisses all over Alfred’s flushed skin.

“Y-yeah,” Alfred replies breathlessly, arching his hips up to meet Arthur.

Arthur smirks. “That wasn’t a question,” he chides teasingly, letting his hands wander over Alfred’s body until one finds a place on the inside of Alfred’s thigh, not where Alfred would like it to be, but close enough that Arthur knows this well. “Want me bad, do you?”

Alfred mewls and nods.

“But you’re so  _naughty_ , Alfred,” the detective continues, sinking his teeth into Alfred’s shoulder. “You’re a thief,” he says, caressing Alfred’s thigh. “I’m a police officer. We’ll just end up playing an endless game of cops and robbers. How, exactly, do you think this could even work?”

Alfred raises his knee to push his other thigh between Arthur’s legs, reveling in the confirmation that the arousal is mutual. He grips Arthur’s shoulders in each hand and pulls him down, kissing him deeply, his dreaming mind letting it feel as good as he always imagines. “‘Cause you want me bad too, don’t you?” he replies confidently, tilting his head arrogantly, but the gesture also further exposes his neck in a display of trust and submission.

Arthur’s lips hover just out of reach of Alfred’s, darting back every time Alfred tries to kiss him. “Am I that transparent?”

Alfred whines in frustration. “I wish. I’ll admit I like you because you’re not easy to read and it’s a risk, but I’m willing to take it. I’m willing to bet you are too.” He leans up quickly and captures Arthur’s lips again. “You stole my heart, I can’t just take that lying down.”

Arthur’s grin is positively devious as he palms Alfred squarely between his legs. “Can’t you though?”

Alfred gasps, but recovers speech quickly. “It’s only fair if I get to make a play for yours in return.”

“I suppose,” Arthur says, stroking him fully now. “In the meantime, just lie back and think of—”

Alfred stifles a frustrated whimper in the back of his throat as he jolts awake and hopes Ivan writes it off as another nightmare. There has to be a way to get out of here.

♠︎♠︎♠︎

Arthur skulks around the house and Abigail worries. She worries more about this behavior than she did when he did it as a teenager. He’d gotten kicked out of his first secondary school for getting caught “petting” with another boy and until they could find another school to take him, he’d skulked around the house in his pajamas.

Teenage angst and figuring out one’s sexuality is one thing.

Being a grown young man and upset because one hasn’t seen the international jewel thief one clearly has deeper feelings for because said thief has been imprisoned for a fortnight is another thing entirely.

Arthur has nothing to distract him from his skulking, either, so he just worries about Alfred, just misses Alfred.

“I know you can’t tell me much, Artie, but is everything alright? Is Alfred alright?” Abigail asks, sliding into a seat near him at the kitchen table where he nurses not his usual cup of tea, but a mug of pitch black coffee.

Arthur looks up at her, frayed. “I don’t know, Mum. I can’t tell you much because apparently, I’m not allowed to know anything myself.”

Abigail pulls out a skein of yarn and hands it to Arthur. She holds one and and he dutifully turns and unrolls the skein for her so that she can make it into a ball. It’s a mindless and familiar task for both of them, but it gives each of them something to do with their hands. She knows Alfred is a criminal by law, but she can’t make herself see him as truly a villain. Not Alfred. Not that sweet boy who sat across the table from her with such yearning in his eyes as she talked about her family, her dear sons. It was the yearning of someone who had no family of their own. It had broken her heart. “He’s… he’s ali—?” she asks carefully, not wanting to fully commit to the question in case the answer is the one she doesn’t want to hear.

Arthur’s jaw clenches from a pain he can’t fully comprehend and bites his lip. “As far as I know, yes.” He breathes out a stuttered sigh. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t stand just sitting here, waiting. I don’t know what my status is at work, with the Yard or the CIA. I don’t know if I can even leave this house and still the only thing I can think about is… is… him and I—”

Arthur’s major emotional breakthrough is thwarted by a knock at the door.

Abigail answers it. “Hello, Gilbert,” she says with relief. “Come in. Arthur! Gilbert is here!”

Arthur peeks out from the kitchen. “What do you want?” he asks Gilbert sharply.

“I want to know if you plan on coming to work in only your bathrobe,  _Mr. Dent_ ,” Gilbert teases, “or if you’re going to need a moment to find your towel.” He holds out a letter stating Arthur has been cleared to return to work, with the caveat that he is still listed as a special consultant for the CIA.

A beaming grin spreads across Arthur’s face as he reads the letter, prompting Gilbert to roll his eyes and admonish, “Oi. Don’t let your face light up like that at the thought of getting back to work. It’s not normal. I’ll have them come haul you away.”

“Oh, belt up,” Arthur says, still grinning. His partner’s declaration is cause for excitement for so many different reasons: he’s going back to work at New Scotland Yard, not the CIA—that’s a big one; he’s going back to work, period; but it also means that Alfred is likely safe and sound… and perhaps a meeting between them is not as far in the future as he had thought. He bounds up the stairs, stopping in the bathroom to wash his face and give himself a quick shave.

As if with the flash of a camera, Arthur looks at himself in the mirror and remembers standing there not so very long ago with paint covering his chest and finds himself wishing he’d been awake for more of the application process. Of course, it’s probably better that he wasn’t, considering the hypersensitivity of his body in general. He doesn’t even want to imagine how the Thief of Spades, would laugh to know that Arthur is ticklish.

Arthur shakes himself and then dashes into his bedroom, throwing on one of his typical pressed suits, though not tying his tie, merely looping it around his neck instead. All things considered, he feels he looks fairly presentable. This is good. This is real life. Gilbert is real life. The Yard is real life. The Thief of Spades is only an entertaining dream… and it doesn’t do to dwell on dreams.

He takes the trip down the stairs two at a time and goes flying out the front door, dragging Gilbert with him. “Bye, Mum! Don’t hold dinner for me!”

Abigail shuts the door behind them, smiling and shaking her head. It’s good, she thinks. Her youngest son has too sharp a mind to ever remain idle for long and, of course, Alfred keeps him far from idle, so in that sense, it is completely perfect that she has never seen Arthur this much in love with anyone else.

Her airy thoughts are dissipated by another knock at the door. She opens it, saying, “I knew you’d forget something, running out of here so— A-Alfred!”

Standing on her doorstep, leaning on an exquisite, ivory-handled antique cane, is the Thief of Spades. He’s a little worse for wear, a little pale and a little skinny in his coat, but very much alive, blue eyes twinkling as much as ever.

“Hi, Mrs. Kirkland,” he says with a grin and a slight wince. “Mind if I come in?”


	22. A Friend in Need Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred needs some TLC, but has trouble asking. Arthur needs a break from the Thief of Spades case. They both need to quit that long river in Egypt... oh well... maybe next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming down to the season finale soon~~~

“Hi, Mrs. Kirkland. May I come in?”

“Oh! Yes, of course, dear.” Abigail holds out her hand and helps Alfred step over the threshold. She guides him to a high-backed chair in the living room. Once she feels he’s settled, she ducks into the kitchen, piling scones on a plate. “You just missed Arthur. He’s gone back to work at the Yard.”

“I know,” Alfred says with a soft smile as he settles into the well-worn chair. He looks around the Kirklands’ house once more. There are no expensive, rare pieces of art or luxury, designer furniture like in his apartment, but the house is finer than his little flat by far. He knew it was the right decision to come here and spend whatever he can of his recovery with Abigail. He deliberately waited until Arthur had left. Even though he wants to see the inspector so badly, he still cannot bring himself to let Arthur see him so pathetic.

“Here you are, Alfred,” Abigail says as she presents him with a plate of scones, setting them on the side table next to the chair. “Eat up.”

Alfred beams at her and then digs in. Of course, the pastries are delicious, not too sweet, just the right texture, the perfect amount of fruit. Kiku’s doctors have had him on a very basic diet—nothing too heavy, nothing decadent—so that he can gain his strength back. Apparently, the supposed protein bars Alfred had been given while imprisoned were closer to sand and glue in nutritional value as well so that it might have been better for him to have had nothing at all.

But the scones… Alfred had almost forgotten what real food tastes like and—

“Oh. Oh, there there, love,” Abigail says, wiping the tears that begin streaming down his cheeks. “It’s alright. There’s no shame in it. Better out than in.”

Alfred blinks, but doesn’t jerk away. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. He sets the scone down and wraps his arms around Mrs. Kirkland, hiding his face against her. She strokes his hair and returns the embrace as best she can.

Abigail sheds a few silent tears herself, but when Alfred stops shaking, she quickly dries her face and then pulls him back to do the same for him. “We’ve been so worried about you, you know. Arthur and I.”

Alfred nods. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault.”

“Of course it’s not!” Abigail says, sitting on the sofa near to the chair. She picks up her current project and begins knitting and purling at an almost furious pace. “You didn’t put yourself in prison!”

“It’s still my fault,” Alfred says. “What has Insp—what has Arthur told you?”

“You broke into a hotel. He said you seemed to think you had an exit strategy, but it failed when the hotel had illegal items in the vault you broke into… and something about a Japanese businessman.”

Alfred nods. “I underestimated Agent Hedevary. I arranged the whole thing so that the CIA would get wind of the heist and then it would be as if my friend, Kiku, hired me to do an above-board job, but then Hedevary turned it all around. I didn’t know the hotel was doing all that shady shi—stuff. I was so stupid.”

“Why did you go to all that trouble in the first place if it wasn’t a real job for you?”

Alfred flushes as pink as possible given how pale he currently is. “I’ll tell you,” he whispers. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

Abigail pauses in her knitting and looks at Alfred and his serious expression. “Of course, dear.”

Alfred takes another scone and picks at it. “I—I wanted to see Insp—to see Arthur. I tried to find a legitimate job, but nothing… nothing stood out. There was nothing I wanted. I don’t steal things unless someone hires me or I want them,” he says somehow feeling completely comfortable confessing that he is actually a criminal to the mother of a detective assigned to catch him, but it’s sort of a happy feeling, particularly when he remembers how she had refused to answer Agent Hedevary’s questions after their first meeting. Alfred doesn’t know anyone more trustworthy than Abigail Kirkland. “I just wanted to see Arthur.”

Abigail smiles conspiratorially. “I’m certain you could have just asked him to meet you for dinner or something.”

Alfred opens and then closes his mouth, trying to doubt her assertion, but she is Inspector Kirkland’s mother after all. “See? Then I’m really stupid.”

“Love often makes us do foolish things,” Abigail replies casually, almost without realizing it. “Lord knows, I’ve often been a fool myself. How else would I have four sons by three different men?” she continues so that Alfred has a chance to smudge the look of shock from his face. She then changes the subject. “So then why do you have that cane? If they beat you, I’ll—”

Alfred shakes his head, “No, nothing like that, thankfully. It’s just hunger and atrophy making my muscles a bit shaky. I’m pretty much recovered, but I couldn’t stay where I was anymore.”

“Why not?” Abigail asks, picking up her knitting once more.

“…just don’t need certain people I know seeing me like this,” Alfred admits. “You’re sure not gonna tell anyone, right Mrs. K?”

Abigail pauses momentarily as it truly dawns on her that Alfred lives in a dangerous world with dangerous people who could seriously hurt him. But he’s here now, for a little while. She smiles and quickly tosses Alfred the tv remote. “Your secrets are safe with me, Alfred.” She watches him for a little while as he eats her scones and flips through television channels. She remembers Arthur mentioning that no one actually knows Alfred’s true age and it strikes her that he must be incredibly young. “Alfred, dear. How old are you?”

Alfred swallows hard on a bite of scone. “That’s a secret too, okay?” He hesitates. “I’m… I’m twenty-two.”

Abigail nods and goes back to her knitting to hide her surprise. A full five years younger than her Arthur and he looks it, particularly now. Like a teenager home from school with the flu. His composure and mannerisms speak of someone much older than him, though his bright blue eyes, sunny blond hair, and cheeky smile combine to make him look even younger than he is. Somehow, his heart and his insecurities seem to reveal his true identity: a very young man forced by circumstances to utterly convince everyone, even himself, that he always knows what he’s doing.

How very exhausting it must be.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Arthur’s return to his department at New Scotland Yard is nothing short of triumphant. He is met with cheers, excited faces, strong claps to the back, and a few arms slung around his shoulders in camaraderie. Even Chief Inspector Carter is very obviously glad to see his “best detective, but of course keep that to yourself mind you” back in his office once again.

Arthur is in the middle of rearranging his desk until it resembles something much more familiar, feeling warm and content to be back where he knows he belongs. Back in the real world.

As he is organizing his pens, a file waves in his face held by an ecstatically beaming Gilbert.

“Hey Art,” he says. “Ready for a new case?”

Arthur snatches the file from him. “Lord, yes. I trust it has nothing to do with any spadian thieves?”

“Hell no!” Gilbert proclaims proudly. “Is ‘spadian’ even a word?”

“Precisely,” Arthur says, nodding soundly. He peruses the file with a trained eye, easily and quickly gathering all the pertinent information. “We’re going to interview the victim, I trust?” he says.

Gilbert nods. “Yes. You alright to take the lead, Inspector?”

“You dare ask such a thing of your superior officer?” Arthur asks, throwing on his coat and tucking the file away in his drawer, knowing that Gilbert has probably all but memorized it word for word.

“You may outrank me,” Gilbert concedes with a sly grin, “but which of us is superior remains to be seen.”

“Tch.” Arthur shakes his head and strides toward the elevator, leaving Gilbert to chase after him.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Mum?” Arthur calls as he opens the door.

“We’re in the kitchen, Artie!”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “We?”

Abigail pokes her head out of the kitchen to smile teasingly at Arthur. “Alfred and I, dear.”

In rapid succession, a window creaks open and a crash against the rubbish bins sounds from outside and a cat yowls as if for comedic effect.

Abigail looks back. “Oh. I supposed it’s just me now.”

Arthur’s heart leaps and then sinks in time with all the commotion. He had gone all day without Alfred on his mind and in that moment, he realizes it’s the first time that’s happened in months. He wishes he could have seen for himself that the thief is alright. “He was here?” he asks, treading carefully into the kitchen as if Alfred might still be there.

“Yes,” Abigail answers. “He was here all day. You don’t have to call that awful CIA woman now, do you?”

Arthur bites his lip to keep from smiling. Abigail Kirkland is not a person easily won over by the mere presence of a lovely face and lovely words. Substance is required to charm her, as it is with all her sons. And the Thief of Spades seems to have thoroughly wooed her. “Technically yes,” Arthur says. “But I technically didn’t see him, so…” he grins.

“Good,” Abigail says, beaming with pride that her son knows right from wrong and right from the law.

“How… uh… how is he?” Arthur asks tentatively.

“Alright, I think,” Abigail replies pensively. “He seemed very tired. I know you say he’s a criminal, but he’s a good young man. What the CIA did to him was cruel and unusual.”

“I don’t know if he’s good, Mum, but what Hedevary did… I know he didn’t deserve that.” Arthur still gets sick with guilt when he remembers Elizaveta hauling Alfred away, a numb look on his face and a smug gleam in her eyes. “He shouldn’t have broken into that vault in the first place, he didn’t even have a reason to do so. It’s like he has no sense of self-preservation.”

“What if he did it for love?” Abigail asks.

A flash of a green eyed monster rears its head before Arthur can even fully process what his mum has said.  _Who?_  Is it the man Alfred had been dancing with before Arthur cut in? He knows Agent Hedevary’s team spoke to him, but he never found out what they got from the man. “Oh? What… what did he say?” Arthur asks.

“I’m sorry, Artie. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You’re going to get done for aiding and abetting, Mum.”

Abigail smiles and leans up to kiss her son on his cheek. “If I am, then so are you.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Sometime during the witching hour, Arthur is woken by a harsh tickling sensation near his ear. He jolts as he realizes Alfred is above him on hands and knees, blowing lightly against his earlobe. The lights are on and he can see quite clearly that Alfred is much healthier than his mother had described. Arthur can see no trace of any kind of make up, even in his jostled state, which means…

“Lied to my mum about being sick, did you?”

Alfred grins widely. “Not exactly. I’ve been physically better for a few days now. You think the cane was too much?” There’s an almost overwhelming urge to fall to Arthur’s side and spend the night wrapped around him, but Alfred has work to do now. His grin softens as he says, “Thank her for me, please.”

“Thank her yourself, she’s just down the hall.” Arthur thinks he could definitely get used to this particular view, but he forces himself to remain professional, as professional as possible given the Thief of Spades has him trapped in his own bed. How lovely it’d be if he could somehow reverse their positions. He could hold Alfred there until… well.

“It’ll be fine coming from you. She’s very kind, she’ll understand.”

Arthur detects something in Alfred’s tone, the unspoken “you’re so lucky,” that suddenly makes him wonder about something he’d bafflingly never wondered about before: Alfred’s parents. He’s too groggy at the moment to think much on them now, but what sort of people produce someone like Alfred? They can’t have been very affectionate if Alfred feels he couldn’t actually ask for the emotional support he clearly needed from Arthur’s mum. His bleary thoughts are broken by Alfred cupping his face.

“I have some things I have to do now. I hope you’ll understand too,” he murmurs, blue eyes going dark. He leans down and kisses Arthur’s lips, more a dusting of a kiss than anything else and when Arthur moves to wrap his arms around Alfred, the thief pins his wrists to the pillow, kissing deeper and nipping at Arthur’s lips.

Arthur has always deliberately kept himself from consciously imagining what it might be like to kiss Alfred, although his subconscious has certainly picked up the slack. Whatever he had thought of, consciously or subconsciously, it could not have accurately predicted how sweet and sinful and _welcome_ the kiss actually is, even with Alfred preventing him from moving with rather well-disguised strength. When the shock wears off, he returns the kiss, sucking on Alfred’s bottom lip until the thief gasps and allows Arthur slide his tongue into Alfred’s mouth.

Alfred realizes in that moment that he has to stop or else he’ll never leave because Arthur is kissing back now and he’s really, really good at it. Alfred breaks away like surfacing from a dive to the bottom of a deep swimming pool. “Thanks, Inspector,” he breathes, brimming with delirium. “See you around.”

With that, the lights are off and the Thief of Spades vanishes like a wisp into the night.

Arthur throws his arm over his face. “Bollocks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave comments k thanks *runs*


	23. Nothing But Strangers Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred confronts Elizaveta. Arthur runs from feelings, but they aren’t his own for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third to last episode for this season! Thank you SO MUCH for everyone who has stuck around for all this. Thank you even more for all the feedback! It’s been so wonderful and life-affirming for me! I hope that you guys will enjoy season 2 even more once that kicks off!
> 
> A quick note: I was flying by the seat of my pants for most of this. I didn’t foreshadow much, but I hope it’s still satisfying. To be honest, I’m here for Alfred and Arthur’s relationship and everything else takes a backseat to that ;P But I promise season 2 will have a more coherent overarching plot.

“Ahhh… fuck,” Elizaveta moans as she regains consciousness. The instinctive attempt to reach for her aching head is thwarted by her wrists being bound behind her back. Her ankles are chained in heavy iron. “Wha—? Where am I?”

“Careful, Agent Hedevary. Chloroform’s a hell of a drug.”

The room is dark, but she blinks up into a dim light to gaze on none other than Alfred Jones, the Thief of Spades. “I should have guessed,” she spits venomously. “Everyone says you’re not violent, but you and I know differently, don’t we?”

“I’ve acted in what might be called self-defense before, but you seem to think I’ve done something more, something very, very bad,” Alfred says casually, almost teasingly. He kneels down and grips her chin. “I actually try to avoid violence at all costs, but I might be persuaded to make an exception for the renegade CIA agent who threw me in unlawful solitary confinement and intended to keep me there indefinitely. That might be a kind of self-defense, don’t you think, Elizaveta?” He leans in close to her face and smiles a bit too widely.

Elizaveta tries to push away from him, but finds herself against a wall. “If you’re going to kill me, then just do it.”

Alfred stands up and looms over her again. “I’m not going to kill you. I want to know what you think I did so I can find out who’s actually responsible.”

“How can you not know! It was you, Jones! It was the Thief of Spades! You are the Thief of Spades, aren’t you?”

Alfred flicks open a knife with a four-inch blade. It’s been a long time since he had to draw a blade on anyone and he’s desperately hoping Elizaveta will just tell him what he wants to know because if she figures out he won’t actually hurt her, the tables could turn quickly. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what I want to know and I’m not above making this unpleasant, so why don’t you just humor me?” he asks in a low voice to hide his nervousness.

She’s a CIA agent. She could still see right through him. Drugging her and kidnapping her were one thing. Inflicting real injury on her would be quite another.

Even if he wants to. Even if he’s never wanted to hurt anyone more than he wants to hurt her right now, he won’t. Even if the thought of her leering at him, smiling smugly as he grew weaker and weaker makes his blood boil. Even if the fact that she ever saw him in such a state feels like enough to make turnabout fair play, he won’t hurt her.

He drags the blade threateningly over her cheek.

She does nothing but breathe deeply over and over again, like a snarling tiger.

Four years ago, Alfred would have hurt her, lashed out the way he had at Ben Gordon or worse, but in the intervening time, Alfred has come to care about beauty and challenging himself more than anything else and he only wants to be able to continue to pursue these things the way he has for the past few years.

Alfred presses the knife against her neck. “Tell me.”

“Fine. You want to rub salt in my wounds? Fine.” Elizaveta glares fiercely at him. “It happened two years ago, not long after I’d been assigned to your case when you were still stateside; I’ll never forget that night. It was May 30th in Aspen. We were staking out a gallery opening you were supposed to be crashing. You shot my partner in the spine, paralyzing her. She had to be retired from the Agency. I never saw her again.”

Alfred’s eyes go wide as she speaks. He remembers that night very well, actually. It had been his third night in solitary confinement at the hands of the criminal organization he’d accidentally made enemies of. He hadn’t known the date at the time, only piecing together the timeline later. With Elizaveta’s revelation, everything is even clearer. “It wasn’t me,” Alfred says. “You were after that ring of art dealers before they assigned you to me, right?”

“So? What do they have to do with anything?” Elizaveta asks. “We were taken off that case when they caught onto my being undercover.”

Alfred flips the blade back into its handle. “I got on their bad side too. They captured me and locked me up a lot like you did and on May 30th, I was losing my mind on drugged food and lack of human contact. They must have found out you were on my case and figured if they gave you good reason to stick to me like glue, you’d forget all about them and it’d be two birds with one stone. I guess they were right.”

Elizaveta shifts against her bindings. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

Alfred sighs. “I guess you don’t. I’m sorry for what they did to your partner.” He kneels down, leaves the chains around her ankles, but unties her wrists.

She slaps him hard across his face. “If you’re so innocent, then don’t apologize.”

Alfred frowns, but shakes it off. “Whatever, but at least you’ll have the real culprits to pursue once they take you off my case.”

“How do you know they’re going to do that?”

Alfred smiles and stands, flicking on a light switch and revealing a dilapidated room in what Elizaveta assumes is an abandoned office building. “I have a friend who’s going to tell your superiors all about the hotel incident. I have every confidence the CIA will do the right thing,” he coos cheekily. “You guys have never let me down before.” He picks up a backpack from near the door and slings it over his shoulder.

“And what are you going to do with me? Just leave me here and hope someone finds me?” Elizaveta asks, now starting to examine the iron chains around her ankles.

Alfred rolls his eyes as he opens the door. “No, but your dedication to assuming the worst about me is admirable in a way. Some other agents should be here to get you in a few minutes. Goodbye, Agent Hedevary.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Arthur Kirkland sips coffee from a paper cup in the break room, lost in a reverie formed partly from countless dreams of Alfred’s body beneath his and partly from the new firsthand experience of kissing the thief’s perfect lips.

The cappuccino machine blurbles, interrupting the daydream, and Arthur can’t really say he’d missed the ancient beast, but the sludge it spits out has a certain familiarity to it that he certainly appreciates.

He sets the cup on the table and stares at his phone. The screen displays his text conversation arranging his meeting with Kiku Honda. Arthur is positive that it leads to a burner cellphone, or if not that, then it almost surely cannot lead directly to Honda himself.

Yet, Arthur has no other avenues to pursue to reach Honda and he only wants to ask one question, the question his thumb is hesitating to hit send on: why did Alfred arrange a fake heist at the hotel? His mum had said it was for love and it’s entirely probable that Alfred had merely been selling her what she wanted to buy, but he still has to know. Even if it’s true, she won’t betray Alfred’s trust and explain further, so Arthur must ask the only other person who would know.

Squeezing his green eyes shut, he taps the send button. He cautiously opens his eyes and stares at the screen for a few moments, but nothing happens.

Of course.

Arthur shoves his phone into his pocket and finishes his coffee. Tossing the paper cup, he goes back to work.

On his way home, the text tone goes off with a response.

_He told me it was because he was bored, but I suspect that he simply wanted to see you._

and then,

_In future, please only use this number for emergencies, Inspector. -H_

It can’t possibly be, Arthur tells himself firmly. It can’t possibly be that Alfred set up a dangerous heist only so he could see Arthur. It can’t possibly be that the Thief of Spades is in love with him. It’s obviously a manipulation tactic. Even that kiss, the kiss which Arthur has been replaying over and over… his heart aches, even that kiss had had no intent other than to throw him off guard. It must be so. He tells himself this the entire way home and by the time he lays his head down to sleep, he nearly believes it.


	24. Le coeur du filou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not over for Inspector Kirkland and the Thief of Spades. We’re only just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely cannot express how much fun I have had with this fic and with interacting with you guys over it. I am SO EXCITED for season 2 and I hope you are as well! I have so many awesome ideas for it!
> 
> Episode 21 (Chapter 25 here) will be the prologue/preview for next season.
> 
> Again, thank you thank you thank you for all of the love and support you guys have given me and this fic.

That familiar tickling sensation hums in Alfred’s fingers when the collective consciousness first whispers the news. His restless mind quickly snatches the information out of the air, out of all of the streams to which he is attuned, and clutches it carefully, like a bird that might take flight.

The alexandrite deposits of the Ural Mountains in Russia, long thought to be depleted of their gifts, have yielded one last prize. It’s little more than a trinket compared to some those mines had once produced, but a beauty all the same: a seventy-two carat stone, but so pretty in its perfect, raw six-petal shape. It clearly has a brilliant polychromatic display locked inside and gem cutter given the honor of bringing it to its full glory will have to be the highest calibre, they say.

Alfred agrees, feeling daunted as an artist at even imagining the task, until he hears the name with which it has been christened by the popular press:

Le coeur du filou. The Trickster’s Heart.

This no doubt refers to the purple-red-green color shifting properties distinct to the alexandrite gem, but Alfred’s fingers do more than tickle at the name. They itch. They ache. Surely, it’s a call from Fate herself and Alfred has no choice but to answer.

Further research reveals the treasure is being conferred to Gem-A in London and not the GIA in California for study and eventual cutting and it’s so clearly a serendipitous alignment of the stars that Alfred can hardly contain his excitement.

With a picture of the alexandrite on his phone, Alfred buries himself at his bench. He gazes fondly at the Green Faerie emerald and tosses his old, center-less engagement ring in a drawer without even thinking twice.

A manic obsession possesses his hands and Alfred begins the process of bringing forth magic from a mere slice of wax, all the while thankful to himself that he had the forethought to get Inspector Kirkland’s ring size when he’d had him tied up to paint on him. His mind runs at breakneck speed and in all different directions. Each thought scatters like each shaving of wax shluffs onto the bench, though none concern themselves with the specifics of naming Alfred’s own feelings; it’s all an exhilarated rush of pure inspiration.

Of course, Gem-A will have insanely tight security for the gem.

The stone is large enough to produce a few excellent quality gems, befitting Alfred’s idea of an understated band to suit Arthur’s taste.

Will they have dedicated security personnel?

What’s the hardness on an alexandrite again? Around eight on the Mohs scale, right?

If there’s no security personnel, what sort of locks would they use? Most likely nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

Not too much off the shank there, it must be something sturdy and masculine for his steady, handsome Inspector.

Yellow gold is so old-fashioned nowadays. Rose is too frilly. Should he cast in white gold? No. Platinum is better for a band—strong and enduring.

The Trickster’s Heart. With all the gemological world’s eyes on it, it will be Alfred’s most impressive, most ambitious heist to date. Perhaps… his legacy.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Ludwig had informed Arthur that Elizaveta and Yao were being removed from the Thief of Spades case, but that he had been instructed to hold space for a new team while things were sorted out and moved around within the CIA.

Arthur had asked if he would even be permitted on this potential new team.

Ludwig had smiled and patted his shoulder. “I do not think you’ll get away so easily. They don’t like to waste talent.”

So, Detective Inspector Arthur Kirkland goes about his life as he always has: making himself too busy to deal with things he’d rather avoid. He waits, hopes, but doesn’t expect. He buries himself in his work as a policeman and in the idea that his life is better when it is quiet and free of the international varieties of things like jewel thieves and intelligence agencies.

There are even a few days where he doesn’t think about Alfred more than once or twice. There are a few days where he can convince himself that the feeling which accompanies those thoughts isn’t longing. There is one whole night where he doesn’t dream about Alfred or his time at the CIA at all.

His mind maintains that the familiar stress of work is better than the madness of working with the CIA, but his heart cannot and will not believe that this mind-numbing boredom is better than the thrill of chasing Alfred, which, his heart also insists in honesty, he  _would_  willingly do for the rest of his life, despite what he had told the thief.

He stares blankly at the forms he needs to fill in on his desk, rolling his pen across the surface.

“Arthur.” Gilbert comes bounding up to his desk like an excited German shepherd.

“Sod off,” Arthur responds reflexively. “I’m busy.”

Gilbert scoffs. He places a package on Arthur’s desk. “Better clear your fucking schedule, mate, because someone just dropped this off for you. And look what’s on it.”

The package is somewhat heavy, but smallish. It is wrapped in plain brown paper, though in one corner, a little black spade is drawn.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but his heart leaps and sings. “Oh lord, what now,” he tries to grouse, but cannot contain his grin. He pulls back the paper, revealing a clear gem case in which the Green Faerie rests, utterly unharmed through its travels from its home in the gem show from whence it had been absconded. It twinkles in the light and Arthur can hardly fathom how anyone could think his eyes that bright, but shakes the thought for now.

On the inside of the paper is written a note in, as usual, unfamiliar handwriting. Arthur laughs, laughs until giddy tears spring forth, and doesn’t care how Gilbert or anyone else in the room stares at him. How wondrous.

_Inspector Kirkland,_  
 _I’m returning this to you for now. I think I owe it to you._  
 _I’m getting you a much nicer one anyway._  
 _Don’t forget to stay out of trouble_  
 _that isn’t me._  
 _xoxo_  
♠︎


	25. Like You, Only Sweeter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is being followed. As usual, that ends up being the least of his problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mainly just a teaser for season 2.

Inspector Arthur Kirkland draws up the collar of his navy blue peacoat as he leaves the Yard, a well-loved leather messenger bag set at his hip. Autumn is fast giving way to winter and he shoves his hands in his pockets and while his mind contemplates the warmth of home, his feet insist on plodding towards the pub.

His mind gives in. Just one or two drinks. His heart skips at thoughts of Alfred. And make sure to watch who pours them.

There are motions here and there, out of the corner of his eye. Now adept at recognizing a CIA tail when he sees one, he takes various turns, betting on the agent not knowing this part of the city as well as he does—which is a risk in and of itself.

The agent continues to dog him and Arthur is starting to suspect that they are wanting to be seen, that they know Arthur has made them.

Finally, Arthur ducks into an alcove and darts out as the agent passes. He forces them up against the wall of building. “Alright, you know who I am, obviously, so identify yourself.”

Even in the low light of the evening, the agent’s hazel eyes twinkle with laughter. His brown hair is pulled into a low ponytail and khaki trench coat is well-fitted, contrasting nicely with his olive skin. He holds up his hands in surrender, peering down at Arthur by a few centimeters.

“Very good, Inspector Kirkland,” he says with a soft chuckle. “I am Agent Gabriel Costa with the CIA. My partner and I are the new agents assigned to the Thief of Spades case.”

Arthur releases him, struck by his charming smile and smooth voice. He coughs and straightens himself, brushing non-existent debris from his coat before shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Right, well. Good. Have fun. I assume I’ll have to be in for a de-briefing at some point. Will I be allowed to know what happened to Agents Wong and Hedevary?”

“De-briefing?” Gabriel asks and somehow manages to make it sound just a bit suggestive. “No, of course not. Both my partner and I wish to keep you on as a special consultant to our team and we have received permission to do so from both our superiors and yours. And, no, you will not be allowed to know what happened to Wong or Hedevary.”

Arthur eyes the new agent. He’s very handsome. The type of man Hollywood might cast to play a James Bond-like character. He wonders what sort of person this man has for a partner. He thinks of the Green Faerie, which he has returned to its rightful owners, and Alfred’s promise. Sticking close to the CIA is the most sure-fire way to find out what Alfred is up to and to see him again. “Very well,” he says stiffly to hide any excitement he feels at that prospect. “I see once again, I have no say in the matter.”

“None of us do, Inspector,” Gabriel informs him with a grin. “But we might as well make our time together as enjoyable as possible, don’t you think?”

The phrasing takes Arthur aback. “Er… well, I suppose.”

Gabriel’s grin widens. “Fantastic! I’d like for you to join the team tomorrow morning. It’s already been cleared with your chief. Ludwig is still with us and I’m told we’re now to be babysitting Francis as he is ‘too valuable an asset’… honestly.” Gabriel shakes his head and holds out his hand. “Well, Inspector, it’s good to meet you finally. I can certainly see why someone as aesthetically obsessed as Jones would fixate on you.”

Utterly bewildered by that tangle of words and unable to shake the feeling that there would have been a wink at the end of that sentence were circumstances different, Arthur simply nods and shakes Gabriel’s extended hand. “I’ll… see you tomorrow then.”

In the span of Arthur’s awkward hesitation, the suave new agent has disappeared.

Arthur remembers just days ago wishing for news from the CIA or any whisper of the Thief of Spades and lamenting how dull his life had been in his absence.

Now, only one thought runs through his mind,  _Arthur old boy, be careful what you wish for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *grins like a lunatic* well. Have fun, kids. See you in Season 2! So many thank yous!!!! It's been such a great ride so far!!!!!!!!


End file.
